


Peter and the Cursed Spring

by APendingThought



Category: Fox's Peter Pan & The Pirates (Cartoon), Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie, Peter and Wendy - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Blood, Curses, Delirium, Episode Style, Fake Episode, Fever, Magic, Neverland (Peter Pan), Nightmares, Sick Character, Slightly is a Hero, Slow Burn, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 24,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23003590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APendingThought/pseuds/APendingThought
Summary: Peter Pan and his band of Lost Boys learn a lesson about debts paid and rules made.  All would have been well had Peter not defiantly drunk from a spring marked forbidden.Wendy and the Lost Boys are forced to make a dangerous alliance with a sworn enemy to save the life of their leader.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	1. The Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Remember this gem from the mid-90’s? I was a huge fan of this show!
> 
> This is one of those missing episode fics wherein if I had been in charge, this script would have aired. In these animated episodic features, there was always at least one episode where the main character fell dreadfully ill which became the main conflict and a turning point for a side character. Being a fan and appreciating how it stayed stylistically more faithful to the book than the cheesecake Disney version, I was sorry to find that the series did not end with much closure. 
> 
> The stories were very engaging and, the script/characters truer to the original novel than the Disney version dared to be.  
> Peter Pan is not always a likable protagonist but Disney couldn’t possibly market such a fiendish imp as the novel portrayed him. Fox’s Peter is brash, a braggart and one would think he’d find himself in far more perilous tangles than he actually did in the series. He’s actively embodying the high and low points of youth— defiance, boldness, simplicity, stupidity, nobility and innocence. Despite his flaws, however, he remains a noble, naive, playful and ultimately relateable to everyone’s inner impulsive child. Fiercely protective of Wendy and especially Michael so we did see his heart in some places. 
> 
> Not all the episodes were animated with the same quality and to be sure, some were likely filler or low-budget fodder. Some of the best animated were: “River of Night”, “Coldest Cut of All” (pilot) , “After the Laughter” and the one whump episode “The Neverscroll”. 
> 
> Neverscroll gave us decent if rather restrained whump but it didn’t go far enough—didn’t indulge us in what a whump-fiend like me really craves—the utter undoing, unraveling and unmaking of a central character. Due to his central role, he can’t always be put in that place and particularly for Peter, whose vulnerability is not an open door, it is especially rare. The hero doesn’t get to suffer. That's why there's fic.
> 
> Like most whumpers, I’m interested in whump for whump’s sake and although there was a good deal of it in the show, none of it truly appealed to me. (wasted an entire episode of it on Mullens—ick)
> 
> Fun fact- Josh Keaton (Shiro) and Cree Summer (Haggar) were both involved in this project. Cree played Tiger Lily and Josh played Curly the Lost Boy. Go know. James Marsden, who voiced Peter, eventually went on to voice Haku in Spirited Away. The things you learn.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this and forgive my clumsy attempt to mimic Barrie's style.

It was an endless balmy afternoon in Neverland which was as unsurprising to its inhabitants as it was to the very sun itself blazing above the clouds. In Neverland it was always summer, which allowed ideal conditions for flying through the air and playing catch on the gales if one so desired or had the ability to desire. The blue of the sky was of a near tangible shade, so blue in fact that a poet would be struck dumb as a post trying to plot a word for it.

Peter Pan had never read a poem nor heard of one for poems were the realm of older boys who studied and there was little eternal youth found drearier than study. Although he delighted in teaching and ordering others about (as every good general ought), being taught was an entirely different matter. The burden of learning was a weight that made beating clouds at their game too difficult. 

All was well and well and better than well. As it was on that particular day, he was brimming fit to burst for today was Munatok Day for the Picaninny Tribe, the harvest festival of vivid paints and sticky fruit, hurled at your opponent in the Messemup Games. It was a ritual Peter gleefully awaited each year, bemoaning the Tribe members that it was observed only one solitary day when it could very well in his estimation have lasted an entire week. Fortunately for Pan and all the berry branches in Neverland, Peter hadn’t the faintest idea of how long a week actually lasted.

Accompanying him flew Wendy in her pale gown who, though tempered, was none too keen on having to ferociously wash Peter’s leathers the day after. Paint Day for Mothers meant an extra wash day for she would not have any of the Boys remain dirty long enough to be confused for a Pirate. Moreover, she was a lady as well as their Mother and preferred more reticent, cleaner pastimes that did not involve hurling juice-filled missiles about. Peter’s Faerie, Tinkerbell, who was most decidedly NOT a lady, held similar misgivings though on her part, she had more care not to soil her wings lest they grew too damp and soggy to lift her tiny feet off the ground.

The sun, being the biggest and most conceited star of all, relished in flaunting its rays among the other stars that blanched with envy in its glare, tossing its pompous weight about. It showed off its brightest radiance to make the sky quite jealous. The bluer it got, the hotter the sun burned. 

Cutting nimbly through the air, Peter howled at his band of lost boys as they wended their way clumsily through the thick billowing mists. The Picanniny Encampment lay on the far edge of the island, beyond the Dark Mountains where untold perils and adventures skulked about in the shadows.

“Hahaha! Hurry up you leadweights! I’d have won the festival three times already before you’d got there! A codfish flies faster! Move sprightly, you slugs! Don’t tarry!”

“We’re coming, Peter!” Nibs-- second in command--called out from behind. He was a thin, wiry sort with a thatch of pale tangled straw on his head. He kept his bearskin cap close to his ears as he flew so it would not be lost as he dodged and dipped over the tall pines. The heat was intense for the sun was in a flirtatious humor, much like Pan himself, casting its powerful rays and stirring up the barometer.

“I complain of this monstrous heat!” John panted.

“And I complain of your complaining!” Peter shot back.

“I say, it is slightly difficult to keep up with the sun beating down on us so!” Slightly, a knock-kneed youth who flew a rather clumsy gait due to his gangly height, piped up. “I’m slightly short of breath.” Indeed he was very red in the face and damp with sweat from so vigorously keeping pace.

Peter slowed to a hover, facing his band of weary men with a haughty grin. “Why a blistering sunny day like today is perfect for a Paint War!” He cried. “I never let any loudmouthed old fire ball dampen my fun!” Sharp bright eyes scanned the verdant canopy below. “But if your throat is parched enough to spit sand, I spy a spring not far off!”

A blade of light flashed dangerously close to his face, pastel petal wings cutting the air hither and thither. Tinkerbell huffed and puffed, frantically. “Peter we mustn’t go down there for any reason! That is the Forbidden Forest!” 

“Nothing is forbidden to Pan in Neverland! Follow me, Men!” Before the cautious sprite could get a word in edgewise, he dove straight down and disappeared into the thicket of trees.

As one the boys followed Peter into a dive, descending straight for an inviting silver pool tucked away between a pile of slate rocks which shone smooth as pearls. A tiny fall gurgled its path down the mountain and into the stone basin. Slightly was first to bend his knee on the cool water’s edge, dipping his hand eagerly into the spring. But before he could bring one drop to his dry lips, a piercing shriek from Tinkerbell made him freeze.

“What’s the matter, Tink?” Peter glided to a halt behind Slightly, planting both feet firmly on the ground as though he owned it.

“That water doesn’t belong to you or anyone else!” Tinkerbell scolded, her dainty voice sounding very cross indeed. She was flitting rapidly about the base of the spring, pointing at some strange markings scrawled into the rock. 

“Nonsense!” Peter scoffed, haughtily, puffing out his chest. “I see no name on it! Can I not drink from any spring in this realm?”

Peter had quite forgotten the meaning of the word “forbidden” for it was a word he disliked and frankly, did not believe existed in the first place.

“These aren’t just any woods, Peter!” The sprite insisted, tiny fists at her hips. “Look!”

Though it was difficult to see, the boys could just make out a faint markings of what appeared to be letters of some form scratched across its smooth surface. The symbols were blood red in shade and scarcely visible behind the clear veil of running water. Peter, who could remember neither his letters nor mystic runes of any kind, waved a hand dismissively. Letters were dull things only grown-ups had time for. “What do I care about some silly letters! My men and I are thirsty and we’ll drink where we please!” He was beginning to sound cross.

“Peter!” Wendy hesitated. “I think this time we ought to listen to Tinkerbell. Those runes may be nothing more than scribbling but surely they must be there for a reason! They may be a warning of some kind. Besides, we’re not far from the Picaninny encampment. We can drink all we want from one of the Indian wells.”

Slightly jolted up to his feet, backing away from the spring he had just drenched his fingers in. Hastily, he swiped the forbidden droplets across the seat of his pants as though they had burned him. He had no desire to anger any spirits, seen or unseen. The Lost Boys swallowed and shuffled their feet in the dirt, casting long baleful glances at the stream but Wendy would not let them touch a single drop. Being their mother, she had a care for their safety and none under her eye would take without asking. 

Peter, however, was accustomed to being always right and being told what he could or could not do by a few odd scratches on a rock did not sit well with him at all. His face grew scarlet and angry for the little stream had somehow managed to spoil his good mood. Obstinately he frowned into the pool, giving the calm surface an angry splash, sending a spray of droplets in Tinkerbell’s direction.

“Oh Peter!” She screeched. “I’m drenched! You thick-headed dolt!” Her dress and wings were heavily soaked through and she now resembled a pansy caught in a rainstorm.

“No one gives Pan orders! Spirit or no!” He brayed and with a scornful laugh, he scooped up a handful of water.

“No Peter!” Tink darted fervently about his shoulders, tugging with all her might at the end of his tangled locks but the boy paid her no heed. With a forceful shrug, the little fairy was tossed aside and he drank his fill of the cold, clear stream.

“Ohhh! You’ll pay for this, Pan!” Tink growled. “If something awful happens to you, I wouldn’t care a flea!”

His band of child warriors stood in wide-eyed silent wonder at his daring for breaking rules in writing is quite a serious thing to a child to say nothing of going against the hallowed wisdom of a Mother, pretend or no. None but Peter had enough audacity to disobey two girls at the same time. Michael clung to Wendy’s skirt and trembled, waiting for Peter’s head to spin or his eyes to pop out of his skull but after an agonizing four seconds, Peter appeared still hale and whole. In fact, he seemed quite refreshed much to the envy of his lot.

The arrogant youth dragged a hand across his mouth with a content sigh, thrusting his chin up at the jittery sprite. “Ha! See Tink? There’s all the harm your silly runes can do! Now I’ve had enough of this place! Let’s make haste or we’ll be late for the games!” And with that he shot straight up into the air faster than a bad decision.

Tinkerbell was fuming, wringing out her sorry wings. “Mark my words, Peter Pan! You’ll regret this!”

Wendy wrung her hands. “I do hope he won’t.” She sighed. “Come along, Michael.” A dainty skip and a hop later she was airborne, clutching Michael by the hand.

The Vengeful Spirits of the Forbidden Forest were silent. With any luck, they were on holiday or simply too occupied terrorizing things elsewhere to notice Peter’s misdeed. Perhaps in Neverland second chances were a kind of magic after all.


	2. Pan is Grounded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter begins to feel the effects of his misdeed

The Tribe were already approaching the peak of their merriment by the time Peter the Lost Boys arrived. Canvas dwellings were festooned with garlands--ceremonial bundles of flowers and sacred herbs. Gold dust mixed with bear fat gleamed in fanciful swirls on the sub-browned skins of the People. Tiger Lily shone brightest among them, leaping blithely from rock to rock in pursuit of Hard-to-Hit, a fistful of mashed fruit held high above her head.

“I will be Chieftess of Summer today!”  


“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Barked Peter, ready as ever to show up anyone in the art of bragging.  


“Peter Pan!” She cried, lifting a victorious juice-stained arm. “Oh welcome brave Flying Eagle!”

The Picaninny Tribe paid spectacular homage to the Forest Spirits for the bounty bestowed upon them during Harvest Time. As celebration, they made great sport of plastering eachother with dyed berry juices and sugary sweet fruits. The Boys loved this game, especially Peter, and all—even Wendy in her own reserved fashion-- were most impatient to take part in the Festivities. To a Lost Boy, there is no greater feeling than victory and now there was heaps of it were to be had!

“Last one to the battle field is a pirate with a peg leg!”

Before he could dart away, a tall, dark man garbed in a shining black panther hide stood up in greeting from the roaring bonfire. This was Chief Big Little Panther—Shaman and Protector of the People. He lifted his hand up high in welcome.

“We greet you Peter Pan and the Lost Boys of the Forest!”

“Big Little Panther!” Peter waved excitedly. “I trust there are enough Mangaboo fruits left for us! We intend to take no prisoners!”

“The branches hang low this turning of the season, Peter Pan. In its plenty, we hold this festival of boundless joy. Take your fill of it and aim true.”

No sooner had he spoken when Peter shot like a dart into a patch of mangaboo trees, plucking up an armful of the sticky golden fruit. Sweet juice dripped down his bare arms as he spied his targets. Nibs , in the meanwhile, had spied a bounty of Tuckleberries and was hastily flinging them at a crowd of Indian children, painting their bare shoulders a bright purple. Wendy and Tink hovered about the melee, both wearing identical expressions of consternation. The Darlings might have termed this a frightful waste but the Indians were very clever in their ways, mixing juice with dyes created from different rocks and plants. Soon all were stained and smiling, sticky with sweetness and laughter. Tootles had found a mangoboo bigger than his head and had to make do with wrenching out chunks to hurl at the Twins who had fashioned a clever sling from twigs and vines to project their missiles.

The festivities lasted for hours and throughout every one Peter’s boisterous crowing heralded each victory. His hair was sticky and matted with fruit, his face and fingers stained a rainbow of colors. His chest was puffed with pride, especially when Tiger Lily awarded him a medal for the surest aim. 

By nightfall, the entire tribe was exhausted and it was time to herd the lot of them to the river for a good dousing. Overheated and spattered with fruit juice was no way to retire to bed. Wendy, who had somehow managed to outlast the day unsoiled, clapped her hands and reminded the Boys to wash behind their ears and between their toes and fingers, especially when Peter became too rowdy with splashing to remember to do so himself. Once or thrice rinsed thoroughly, they bade the tribe farewell and when all the Picaninny had taken to their pallets to nap, Peter signaled their return to the Hidden Treehouse. His cheeks were bright pink despite the rinsing, eyes sparkling strangely bright. His thin chest heaved but then they were all a bit worn out.

“Fly men! Back to the—“ 

Yet as these words left him, a queer thing happened. A strange look washed across Peter’s face which had quite suddenly drained pale. The boy who could, with the ease of breathing, span on tiptoe the length of a roof pole staggered, then stumbled to one knee. Dazed, he raised a hand to his brow and shook his head vigorously.  


“Curious! I think some cloud has got stuck in my ear!” He grumbled, smacking the side of his head with his palm. “My head feels all out of sorts.”

Wendy peered into his left ear, then his right but she could find no errant wisp, petal, seed or pulp. 

“I don’t see anything. Do you feel alright?” She folded her arms. “It has been a full day after all.”

“Impossible!” Scoffed Peter, rising shakily to his feet. “I never tire!”

Nibs scratched his head. “Can you fly?”

Of course this was a blasphemous question for Peter Pan. Peter readied his muscles for launch and with a powerful surge, set his knees and jumped into the air. But he only managed a mere foot off the ground when his body twisted suddenly as though shot by a bolt of skyfire. He uttered a sharp cry and tumbled back to the earth with a thud, bumping his head.

“Peter!” Wendy cried in alarm, kneeling at his side. “Something _is_ wrong!”

Of that there could be little doubt but Peter was more livid than surprised, enraged at the sky for denying him. With a sullen shove, he batted away the wondering hands of the Lost Boys that sought to aid him and lift him to his feet.

“Stand down, all of you, and touch me not!” 

The Boys exchanged fearful glances for their leader had begun to behave very unlike himself. Peter but then again, not quite Peter. His eyes, which had but hours ago been sharp and alert were now peculiar--glassy like marbles, his gaze far off as though trying to see something in the distance. His temperament, too, had shifted for although Peter was quick to temper, he often cooled long before he could remember the thing that had vexed him to begin with. Now he struck the earth with his fist, and sought doggedly to regain his feet. Again, he tried to command the air but it would not obey him, hurtling him back to the ground like a tossed stone.

“You silly ass!” Tinkerbell scolded, tiny arms crossed. “I warned you not to touch the forbidden spring. Serves you right!”

Peter regarded her with a glazed look, blinking as though he could not make out her shape.

“Oh. Hullo Tink? Since when were there two of you? I can barely manage one of you!”

“Knave!” Tink stuck out her tiny tongue.

“My eyes are playing tricks!" He squeezed his eyes shut as though to right them. "I don’t like this game, you willful sprite! Undo it! Now!” His face crumpled as his head throbbed viciously. “Ouhhh! Tink!” He moaned. “What in Davy Jones name have y'done to me?”

“I done?” The faerie shrieked incredulously. “Me?! Of all the wild accusations, what’s the matter with you?” 

Tinkerbell hovered above his nose, pressing one tiny hand against his eyebrow. “Kettles and Skillets, Peter! You’re hotter than a smoking cannon!”

“Peter, come here.” With very gentle hands Wendy felt of Peter’s face. He frowned for he detested being touched under any circumstance yet, queerly, his shaking limbs and the tight feeling in his chest would not let him cast her aside. It was as though he were not quite himself on the inside and if he were not precisely himself, then this iron law could be bent. She was, after all, a lady as well as their mother and besides, her hands felt blessedly cool against his too warm skin which made his body sag in relief. Like the first dipper of water on a summer’s day. What magic resided in a mother’s fingers, he thought.

“Oh dear!” Wendy exclaimed, her hands feeling of his cheeks, his neck and brow. "Tinkerbell is right! You’re burning up, Peter!”

“But how can that be?” He murmured, raising a hand to his forehead, too unnerved by this new puzzling symptom. “It’s so cold.” Shivering, he rubbed his own arms vigorously. An even queerer thing indeed for as Peter tried to warm himself, his brow gleamed with sweat.  


The gathered Lost boys grew more agitated for there was no bite to the wind or barely any breeze at all to make one’s hair stand on end. Was Peter Pan playing opposites now? Were they all meant to shiver now and pretend it was Winter?

Wendy’s gaze met John’s gravely though they exchanged no words. 

“How will we get back home?” Slightly wondered. “Peter cannot—“ He bit his tongue at the sharp glare from Peter. Declaring Peter unable to do anything was a clear invitation for banishment. “Uh, I mean, we’re in a slight pickle.”

“There’s nothing for it.” Wendy decided for them. “We will have to carry him and put him straight to bed.”

All the boys grimaced at that reviled destination but strangely Peter himself made not a sound. His glassy gaze lingered hatefully on the sky that had refused him. Wendy grew afraid for Peter was always ahead of every moment in his realm. Now his shoulders seemed unable to support his head and he trembled, though more from cold or rage she could not tell. 

“Hold still!” A tiny puff of air sprayed from Tinkerbell’s hand, sending a sparkling cloud directly into Peter’s listless gaze. 

“Augh! What was that for, Tink?” He rubbed furiously at his eyes, blinking back the assault as tears threatened to burn a path down his cheeks.

“I might not be able to reverse the curse but this ought to give him strength enough to fly home at least.”

Wendy approached her friend, putting a reassuring hand on his arm; but he flinched and shied away from her touch. The Little maid hid her hands behind her back and smiled sympathetically.

"Go on, Peter. I'll be right behind you." She promised.

Perhaps it was her promise and not the solid strength of her arm that lifted Pan off the ground. His shoulders sank lower as he set his feet, crouched and made a shaky ascent. Arms outstretched, his jaw was set, determined not to let the sky make a fool of him again.

“Come Peter. Let’s hurry home at once. I think we’ve had quite enough adventure for today.”


	3. A Silver Lining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is now unquestionably ill and none know what to do

Queerest of all to the wild band, aside from Pan’s uncharacteristic lethargy, was the manner in which time did not fly on their journey back. Whereas the trip to the Picaninny Camp had been brief as a blink plus one hiccup, now the highway of clouds seemed to double and the expanse of sky dragged on for miles that had not been there before. The Lost boys flew in a semblance of formation, mindfully flanking Peter on all sides lest he swerve into a Yuntu tree or get carried off in a wind pocket. They were also keen not to incur his ire. As it was, however, he seemed barely possessed of strength enough to stay afloat, continuously listing this way and that but Wendy kept close watch and held his hand tightly in hers.

A profound and unsettling change had beset Pan like a weighted cloak. Once in the midst of their harried flight, he bade Wendy descend so that he could rest a moment against a tree trunk, crouching low on one of its branches. His breathing was shallow and made a funny whistling noise as it left him.

“So thirsty…” The boy murmured, rubbing his eyes against the relentless pull of sleep.

Wendy glanced earnestly about but could find no stream or river. She would have to make do with pretend water. Cupping her hands, she dipped up the coolness of the tree’s bark in her palms and let the invisible droplets fall into his mouth. Peter tried to drink though he trembled so violently he could barely swallow. He acquiesced with a heavy sigh, letting his heavy head loll down against his chest, like a puppet with its string cut off. Tink flitted from her perch atop his shoulder and beat her wings rapidly back and forth, fanning the dampness gathering at the back of his neck which revived him a little. 

“Oh Tink, isn’t there any way to help him?” Wendy frowned, the back of her fingers against his brow.

The Faerie shook her head. Despite her vast knowledge of Neverland's workings, this was something new to her. Sympathy was not a known emotion for Faeries, least of all one bound to Peter Pan.

“Not here I’m afraid. All we can do now is fly! We must get him back to the Hideout!”

The deathly pallor of his face frightened the smaller boys but brave Wendy was steadfast. Up once more into the sky they went, bearing their sick commander on their shoulders. At length they reached the Hollow Tree in the heart of the Wood. It was not a long journey for when one is blithe, time in Neverland falls courteously short. But Peter felt every second drag by as though the tiny grains of sand in Wendy’s timeglass were rollicking boulders. His head that had been ringing and buzzing so badly before was now so leaden and hot that it felt as though it were ready to part ways with the rest of him.

The Hidden Lair of the Lost Boys lay in the hollows of a giant Oak Tree, rooted deep in the bowels of the forest. The only way to find it, as the name suggests, was to step off the path one was meant to follow and meander without looking back. Winding passageways lead further into the alcove where only the very young dared venture and only the smallest of frames could fit. None but Peter and his men knew its exact whereabouts for it would not do to have pirates skulking about or grown ups poking at its sanctity. 

Grown ups had a way of spoiling the magic of imaginary dwellings and Peter was quite strict on this rule. Even if one determined sea dog did manage to stumble upon the secret doorstep of Pan’s lair, his large clumsy limbs would be far too cumbersome to navigate the narrow passageways which spiraled into the den. A small child, however, can easily crawl through pint-sized englotted spaces and each boy had their own way of entering. Some sailed down the chimney shaft and others through the trap door dug into the ground but the most delightful entry was to slide down the twisty-turny crawlspace that lead to Wendy’s parlor.

The sun was setting a poisonous red and dusk was fast approaching when the Lost Boys and Wendy finally arrived. They flew in nimbly through the underground tunnel and down the dim corridor which smelled eternally of damp moss and the underside of rocks.

Peter’s legs would no longer hold him upright the moment his leather boot skidded roughly into the hard earth floor of the Treehouse. The flight had drained him so utterly that he tumbled to his knees, face pale and damp.

“Aungh! Why?” He groaned, clutching his head. “My head! Feels like a thousand clanging cutlasses between my ears!”

Tinkerbell weaved her way in and out of the crowded boys, lifting her voice sharply. 

“Back off, silly asses! Give him some air!” 

Poor Peter sat still huddled miserably on the floor, hunched over in pain. Wendy had not left his side, and was whispering calm words in his ear. 

“All will be well, Peter. You must breathe quietly and slow. Your head has just got too heavy from thinking too much. We will carry the cares for you, the boys and I.” Though she was quite unsure herself, she was still his mother and would not fall into despair. Helping him to his feet, she let him lean his weight against her slight frame. “The place for you Peter Pan is bed.”

“No...I won't....” He murmured in a daze, taking careful steps beside her. 

“Hush. You don’t have a say in this I’m afraid.” Said she.

Peter did not even have a proper bed for he spent very little of his time asleep. Night was a friend to him and he often found the most alluring and distracting games hidden deep in its pockets. On any other occasion, nothing vexed Peter more than being sent early to bed. But his entire body was so beset by aches and ague that he gratefully flung himself down upon the rough pallet of grass, leaves and spider webs.

“Peter?” Tootles asked in a small voice. “Why are you lying down? Wendy hasn’t yet told us a story and it’s much too early for bed.”

But Peter did not answer for his strength had left him. He flung one arm across his face as though he could hide himself in darkness.

“It hurts.” He muttered. “Everything hurts.” Peter sounded very small indeed and nothing at all like the brash and daring youth he had been that morning.

“How do you feel, Peter? Can you tell us?” Urged Wendy, trying her best to soothe him.

“First hot, then colder than the deepest depth of the sea. My arms and legs won’t listen when I order them to stop shaking and my head it—ANGH!” A sharp stabbing pain cut him short, leaving him gasping for air. When he finally found his voice again, it was no louder than a whimper. “Wendy, I’m done for this time.”

Frightened by these words, Wendy’s sensibilities took over. She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t speak anymore. Rest.”

Each Lost Boy looked even more lost--exchanging anxious glances, unsure of what to make of this. Like all children, they were captured by the thrill of their current plight but, being boys, were not fully aware of the danger looming o’er them. 

Peter hid his face in his arms and let out a low moan. His head ached like a thousand hammering tongs and his stomach was beginning to roar like a wounded beast.

Now tucked up in his bed, Peter shook with violent chills and as none of them had been taught how to remedy such maladies, they were quite at a loss. Fortunate they were indeed to have a Mother, petit though she was, among them. She was quick to find an old pair of John's stockings to warm his bare toes and eventually his tremors abated. A funny sort of restlessness overcame them for they were used to Peter being the source of their giddiness and without him to tell them what to do, they did not know where to put this nervous feeling. 

“We’ll not sit idle while Peter lies sick!” Cried Nibs at last. His voice boomed and commanded attention immediately.

“Yes! Tell us what we must do to save him, Mother!” Added Curly.

Wendy, as any good mother, took charge in an instant. 

“Curly. You must fly at once to the Ice King and in as nice and mannered a voice as possible beg him for a large chunk of his parlor floor.”

“Ice?” Curly scratched his head under his fur cap. “For what? This is hardly time for another snow pie fight!”

“The ice should bring down Peter’s temperature.” Wendy replied, fetching a wooden bowl and filling it with water from the wash bucket. She had often heard her own mother make similar utterances while nursing her brothers. Now she wracked her brain, trying to remember the steps required in caring for another. Sick persons all demanded fussing, a great deal of water and must be made as comfortable as possible. She seized in her arms a stolen pirate banner which she had intended to use for polishing the pretend candlesticks. Now she would use them to bathe Peter's forehead and keep his neck cool.

“And will that cure him, Mother?” Curly asked in earnest but she shook her head.

“I’m afraid it won’t but it will make him more comfortable. Go now and return as quickly as you can!”

Curly wasted no more words. With a flick of his striped raccoon’s tail, he disappeared through the escape chute. Once he had vanished, the other boys set about finding ways to help though they more bungled the task than managed it. 

“I’ll get father’s tea!” Cried Michael, chubby hands clutching for his mug.

“And I shall fetch a blanket!” John followed after. The blanket was actually a rug made of thick bear hide, a Now Day gift from Tiger Lily, but no sooner had John drawn it Up to Peter’s chin, when he threw it aside with a stubborn kick, being much too feverish to keep it on.

“I say!” John observed. “But this is most unlike Peter to stay in bed.”

“Which is precisely why we must do all we can to fix him.” Wendy replied, kneeling beside the bed to fold the errant blanket.

Peter, for his part, was acting stranger and stranger. One moment shivering and the next sweating. He tossed upon his pallet, trapped in the grip of an intensely frightening dream. Peter Pan did not have nightmares, for their roots are kept hidden in memories and Peter was the one being in Neverland free from them. Try as she might, Wendy could not rouse him and so there he remained locked in fearful visions. 

His limbs twitched, his brow creased in distress, and his dark hair was perfectly damp with sweat. His pulse, when Wendy captured his wrist, raced like a hundred tumbling marbles down a hill, headed for disaster, making her very much afraid.

“If only he hadn’t taken the water…” She murmured, twisting a rag between her hands and letting it drip into the bowl at her knees. This she laid over Peter’s hot cheek.

“I know! We could just give him some medicine!” Cried Tootles and he ran to pluck off a sturdy leaf from a branch. Folding it ever so carefully in two, he scooped up a bit of water from the well bucket and carried it hastily to Peter.

“Here, Peter. Drink. It’s your medicine! It will make you well.” He urged, pouring the liquid from the leaf to Peter’s dry lips but Peter did not open his mouth for he was too ill and far away to hear. The water trickled uselessly down his chin and dripped onto the bear hide blanket.

“Peter!” Tootles fretted, catching his lower lip under his small white teeth. “Now you’ve gone and spilled all your medicine! What a waste!” 

But Peter did not care an inch about waste, ill or not. He moaned in pain, a frightful sound which made Tootles cover his ears. His chest had begun to throb and ache terribly but Tootles could not know this. The child’s plump face crumpled and his dark eyes began to shine. He had only meant to help and the realization that his aid offered no benefit at all was crushing. Wendy reached out her arms to him and he ran to embrace her.

“There, there. I’m sure your pretend medicine did a little good? Peter was probably thirsty. Though we haven’t any proper medicine, we could make father more comfortable, couldn’t we?”

Sniffling, Tootles gave a solemn nod and dragged a hand across his wet eyes, for only babies cried, not brave tribesmen.

“Heart’s Ease is naturally sweet and the tea will at least chase away the bad dreams.” She decided, tending the kettle that hung over the hearth. 

“He will need far more than tea to make him well again, silly girl!” Tink admonished. “Just rewards I say, the hot-headed fool!” She was really not a very ladylike creature at all.

“Fevers go away on their own when they are ready, like ill-mannered table guests.” Wendy repeated for she had heard such talk from grown-ups from her own sickbed. "I don't suppose your magic could help?"

But Tinkerbell’s dust could not undo curses brought about by arrogance so they were at another dead end. Though it was much in her Faerie nature to be contrary, Wendy knew the loyal little sprite would cure Peter at once if she could.

Neversage and Heart’s Ease tea were all Wendy could find in the larder and neither were strong enough to free Peter of his pains. Wendy herself could not recall having a temperature that high though she had a few times been ill herself some years ago. Unlike Peter, however, she’d had the comfort of Mrs. Darling and Nana who’d sat staunchly by her bedside to sing lullabies, read stories, and bring endless glasses of iced ginger water to sip. 

Wendy now had none of those things available for Peter and, heart heavy, she felt a very poor mother indeed. How different Peter appeared to her now. His arms were often crossed over his puffed-out chest, his sparkling eyes merry and searching for sport. Now he looked like nothing more than a child in agony on his pallet, growing hotter by the minute without even a proper pillow to help ease him off to sleep. Noting her distress, the twins--as one-- stepped forward.

“Might we help?”

Wendy’s distressed gaze was answer enough.

"Oh twins, whatever can you do?"

Though never daring to be as clever or brilliant as Peter himself, the two lads were quick to devise a solution and in quicker time than it took to teach a badger to dig, they’d poorly stitched together—with pine needle and thread— the softest, smoothest scraps of fabric to be found in the treehouse. Shreds of linen stolen from a ship mast, an old silk nightdress belonging to Wendy and even a pair of Tinkerbell’s gossamer knickers went into the design. These they fashioned into a feather light casing stuffed with odds and ends. Nothing itchy, scratchy or rough that might worry the skin. Soft and cool things like cobwebs dotted with dew, moss which sat eternally cold and damp on the stump, bulked up with eider down feathers. It was light as a cloud and Wendy clapped her hands in delight when they presented the finished cushion.

“Come see Mother--” Cried one.

“—what we have made to make Peter well again.” Finished the other.

“Oh you brilliant clever things!” She cried, hugging it to her chest. Ever so gently as only girls can be, she smoothed down its pale surface with her hands until it was quite clean and inviting. Very gently, she lifted Peter’s poor hot head from the unforgiving pallet and placed the pillow beneath it, being careful to guide his cheek to the coolest side. Peter sighed and smiled, grateful for relief, for the pillow was as a cloud and reminded him of flying. In little time at all, he stopped thrashing about and began to breathe with more ease. His brow smoothed and he slept.

“He’s finally resting.” Wendy sighed, sagging with relief into her chair. It was the one chair the little house contained and Peter had carved it for her himself. It was rough in some places, smooth in others, and spattered clumsily with sap stain. Wanting to busy her hands, she picked idly at the loose splinters in the shoddy framework, glad of the distraction. 

"Wendy?"

His raspy voice repeated her name, as though he were searching for her. 

"I am here, Peter. Right beside you. I've not moved from this spot." She whispered but he did not look in her direction. Dark eyes blinked open, uncomprehending, searching for the source of her voice, before closing again in resignation.

"Wendy...mother..." He whispered again.

Wendy made a start at this for the proud youth never addressed her by that title. Frowning, she leaned over and touched his flushed cheek.

“I believe he is a little cooler.” She murmured to herself.

“We might fetch a raincloud if any are up tonight?” Suggested Nibs. “They are always cool but rather noisy.”

“No, Nibs. It won’t do to have Peter catch a chill on top of everything else.” Wendy said, drawing the covers back up neatly under Peter’s chin from where he'd wriggled himself free of it. 

Seeing Peter peacefully sorted at last gave the boys a glimmer of hope but alas, the Underground House remained dim and gloomy for without Peter no games could be played and this game, though quite new and strangely thrilling in its way, wove a thread of fear in their hearts. Furthermore, to see Mother Wendy so serious and grim and their brave captain so sick made the boys all very silent and solemn indeed for none of them knew quite what to do about it. 

“This game has an awful lot of waiting.” Mused Nibs, playing idly with the top of his dagger which to him seemed newly useless and nothing more than a lump of wood. He watched the girl tending to Peter with distaste and shook his head for without Pan, they were to be resigned to quiet games and playing house all day and he'd be a Found Boy before any soul in Neverland caught him drawing water or pouring tea. 

“I suppose now we wait.” Sighed Wendy, arranging a fresh cloth across Peter’s forehead despite his stubborn efforts to shake it off. “Peter is our patient now even though he is not at all patient.”

The Boys as one grimaced. Waiting was a fate worse than medicine.

“But what if Peter were to grow worse?” Worried Tootles. “Will he never wake up?”

“Then we must get a thermometer to make him well again.” Cried Michael.

Providence! The eyes of each boy lit up with renewed vigor. A thermometer was a magic tool native to mothers and important grown-ups who carried even more important black bags about. Surely that would be the very thing to save Peter! 

“But where would we find one?” Indeed there were not too many grown ups in Neverland let alone important ones who carried black bags about.

Wendy frowned a moment in thought.

“Why, a medicine chest, I suppose. A small box that has a bright red cross on the front.”

“Where do we find one?”

“We haven’t one about. But surely one might be found aboard the Jolly Roger!”

At this, the boys trembled for this task would mean high adventure.

“Slightly, you and Nibs must go as you are the biggest and most stalwart of his band. You must fly to the Jolly Roger and fetch a thermometer from the medicine chest of Captain Hook.”

“Ought we ask him, first?” Slightly inquired. “Otherwise, it’s slightly stealing.”

Nibs crossed his wiry arms and leaned against the mud wall. “Ever try asking a sea dog for anything?”

Slightly shuddered. “They’d send our necks to the cutlass.” 

“Beg, borrow, steal, do whatever you must boys! Only bring back that thermometer as speedily as you can!” Wendy implored.

Slightly’s chest puffed out in renewed bravery.

“Alright! We’ll go!” He declared. Suddenly his face twisted uncertainly. “Um, what does a thermometer look like, Wendy?”

“Like a little thin rod of glass with a silver lining running down its middle.”

“A silver lining!” Slightly whispered, reverently. “Just what Peter needs!”

“Let us away at once!” Cried Nibs, grinning with delight at his tantalizing mission. He brandished his sword high in the air and let out a pealing crow. Nibs and Slightly took to the skies in haste for their captain burned with a fire so hot that all the Ice in the King’s Palace could not quench. But there wasn’t time to be frightened by the deathly pallor in Peter’s complexion nor the sand in the hourglass rushing to a point of no return. Time was the one thing Peter did not have and since not all endings in Neverland are guaranteed happy, they dared not waste a blink of it.


	4. A Cunning Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nibs and Slightly venture onto the decks of the dreaded Jolly Roger to steal a thermometer

Pitch black was the sky that greeted Nibs and Slightly as they flew hidden through the canopy of tree branches. The winds were strangely silent and it seemed as though the boys skimmed through the tense air as though it were thin water.

“This is the darkest night I’ve ever seen.” Nibs warned as he flew expertly between the twisted tree branches. “Fly close to me.”

“It’s slightly hard to see at all!” Slightly added, doing his best to keep pace, dodging the low limbs and narrow gaps between. Despite the lack of breeze, he shivered. “Where have all the stars gone? Looks to me as though the sky’s blotted them out.”

“Peter’s life is in danger. It’s a sign.” Nibs said, hardening his jaw. “We must not fear the night. Peter is counting on us.”

"Maybe," mused Slightly. "He'll slightly reward us? Once he's feeling slightly better, of course."

The sky was difficult to navigate for indeed it was as dark a witch’s cloak. Peter, who was in fact the very heart of Neverland, could neither laugh nor play and without the spirit of Pan the stars themselves did not shine as bright to pave their way to the shore. Nibs and Slightly flew steadfast for the Jolly Roger, relying on their keen noses to detect the tang of sea salt from below. Their heads were so full of valor that they neglected to devise any sort of plan for their misdeed. No sooner did the ragged flag fly into view when a loud boom erupted into the sky. Danger! A vicious cannonball hurtled straight towards them!

“Duck!” Screamed Nibs as they skimmed the clouds, each seeking to hide from the deadly missile. As usual, they were too nimble and quick for the great heavy thing and it sank deep into the sea, upsetting the Mermaid’s Tea party.

“Slightly, we must stop!” Nibs panted, now worked up from the attack. “We need to think of a strategy.”

“Well, what would Peter do?” Wondered Slightly.

“Why, he’d stomp on board and snatch the..." His face pulled into a frown. "...whatsit?"

"I think Wendy called it a silver lining." Slightly shrugged.

"Right! He’d filch it right from under Hook’s nose!”

Slightly’s thin shoulders sagged. “But I am not Peter. I am not as brave or clever as he.”

“Then we must pool both our wits together, Slightly! Come! I have a sort of plan and that's better than a no plan!” With that, he dove confidently down to the shore. Now some in Neverland might say that Nibs was a dashing fellow with his golden skin, green eyes and head of straw-colored hair. In fact, he had earned something of a reputation as a lothario among the mermaids so it was no great task for him to win their attention. Kneeling by the water’s edge, he struck the moonlit surface with his sword.

“Up! Break the foam Mermaids!” Cried he. “I am the Lost Boy Nibs come to rob you of all your jewels and treasures!”

In less time than it took to pop a bubble, three fair heads of pale silver hair bobbed to the surface, each sporting an identically lethal frown.

“What do you want?” Complained one, flicking her pearly scales in his direction. 

“You’ve already spoiled our tea.” Pouted another.

“Apologies dear ladies.” Nib said with a mid-air debonair bow. “But this night I come seeking favor.”

“Of course you do.” Huffed the third mermaid, twirling a lock of her fine hair about her finger.

“My man and I must sneak aboard the Jolly Roger and steal a magic stick! The pirates are all prowling about the deck and we dare not approach for they outnumber us two to seventy hundred.”

The delicate faces contorted with disgust for the mermaids, too, both feared and despised pirates. 

“Why should we help you?” Queried one with hair spun from a sunset. “When have any of you Lost Land Roamers ever braved the Fathoms to lend us aid?”

“I haven’t time to spend dallying on petty matters!” Cried Nibs in a passion. “Say you will aid me or I’ll not come visit you ever again!”

At this, the mermaids fretted, for they had grown overly fond of Nibs, his youthful neck, strong arms and the modest presents of honey he brought them from time to time. 

“Very well. We are listening.”

Nibs grinned bright as a new moon. He was always happy each time he won a fight. “I need you to swim around the Pirate ship and use your songs to lull the pirates to sleep.”

“Is that all?” The pretty girl tilted her head. “But what of you? How shall you keep from falling from the sky in slumber?”

“We’ll stuff our ears with clouds until you give us a sign it is safe.”

The watery maidens smiled wickedly for they loved a diabolic prank almost as much as Pan himself.

“Oh, um, ladies? We may need one more thing.” Slightly added, hastily. The mermaids were making him blush and he was shivery and hot all over.

“What now?”

“Might we…borrow one of your nightgowns?”


	5. The Raid of the Jolly Roger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly and Nibs sneak aboard with the aid of a few night riddles

Three pairs of beguiling eyes bright as gems flashed in the pale moonlight. Cutting beneath the waves, they swam towards the bow of the ship, stopping bob around her heavy creaking sides. Nibs flew low, hovering above their heads, clutching in his hands a gown of flimsy silk.

“Once all aboard are snoring, I will disguise myself with one of your nightgowns and pretend to be a lost maiden to distract any who might awaken. Then Slightly will sneak into Hook’s bedchamber and find the silver lining. Once he has stolen the magic stick, we will be off faster than a blink.”

From the decks, they heard the roaring laughter and rough gravelly speech from the salty sea dogs. Billy Jukes, the only child among them, spoke high-pitched foul words that cracked before he finished them. 

Nibs plucked up a fistful of cloud and hastily stuffed it into his ears like cotton, hastily thrusting a wad into Slightly's shaking hand as the mermaids opened their mouths and began to sing. Though neither of the boys could hear exactly, a sweet, syrupy feeling came over them and stole their focus. Slightly had to shake his head sharply to keep from falling out of the sky altogether.

Nibs, who had a much strong constitution, whizzed past the gathered mermaids to investigate, thanking them with a blown kiss. Giggling, they sank beneath the waves.

"The coast is clear." Nibs reported. "All the pirates are snoring!"

Slightly summoned up all of his bravery, again longing for Peter to tell him what to say and when to act. Tearing out the lump of cloud plugging his ears, he straightened his back and steadied himself on the silent deck of the dreaded pirate ship. The wooden slats creaked beneath his toes and he froze.

The boys winked at eachother upon discovering Hook’s crew lying senseless and sprawled about the prow of the giant ship. Gentleman Starkey breathed loudest, the ends of his thin black moustache gently swaying with each puffed exhale. Billy Jukes snuggled up against Long Tom, the White Tiger Cannon who, having been fired not moments ago, was now warm and cozy. 

Nibs draped the night gown over his head, concealing his dusty patched trousers and homespun shirt with the flimsy garment. His coonskin cap he stuffed down the front of his collar, creating the illusion of a gracefully curved bosom. He even swallowed a honey blossom from his newly sewn pocket to sweeten his throat. By the gauzy gaslight of the moon, he struck a fair (though silly) figure indeed and considered himself remarkably clever. Stepping blithely over the outstretched legs of each snoring cut-throat, he made a gleeful game of biding his time on the deck while Slightly hid high up in the crow’s nest waiting for the exact moment he imagined Peter would have given him the signal to reveal himself had he been there. 

Slightly hunched down deep in the wicker basket, fighting to stay his trembling for this was still a dreaded Pirate ship in the dead of night and he alone must snatch an elusive stick straight out of the personal cabinet of Captain Hook himself! 

“By my grandad’s garters, what be this?”

Smee, who was not the brightest of the lot, had not heard the Mermaid’s song and now wandered about the ship, holding his lantern aloft. In his striped cap and night shirt, he peered at the scene before him.

“What an odd thing indeed.” He muttered to himself, straightening his spectacles. “The Captain did not order a siesta. What curse have we sailed into?”

Nibs chose that moment to place himself in Smee’s path and curtsy as prettily as he could.

“Pardon me, sir. But might you be Bosun Smee, first mate of the dreaded Captain Cod—I mean, Captain Hook?”

“That I be, Missy.” Smee declared with a bow. “And what service might I be?”

“Oh I have been up all a sleepless night trying to solve a faerie riddle. The beastly imps have stolen my dear kitty away and won’t give him back until I’ve answered their silly little puzzle. I am but a poor maid, you see, and have no head for such quandries. I am not a learned adventurer nor faithful aid to the dreadest Pirate ever to cross the Seven Seas.”

“Do tell!” Smee twirled the end of his salt-crusted beard. “I’ve a knack for finding answers to questions or I be not Bosun Smee!”

“Oh thank you, noble sea dog!” Nibs cried in his sweetest girl’s voice which was difficult because the only girl he’d ever heard in his life was Wendy. He curtsied once more in clumsy mimicry of her manner and as best his lanky limbs would allow.

“Now would’ye be willing, kind sir, to unravel me this: 

_A warrior of flowers, she bears a thrusting sword.  
She uses it when’eer she must, to fend her golden hoard._

While Smee wracked his brains and stroked his beard over and over in thought, Slightly mustered up his courage, and slipped past the slumbering oarsmen lying sprawled about the brig like basking sea lions. Large bellies heaved, shuddering with snores so loud Slightly wondered how they did not wake eachother.

The heavy oak door of the captain's quarter opened with a loud creak. Slightly steeled himself, readying for the fearsome sight of Hook in his night gown. 

“I must not hesitate!" He thought to himself, setting his jaw. "Peter is sick and it is up to me to save him!”

With that emboldening thought ringing in his head, he tiptoed into the massive chamber of Hook’s private cabin, eyes searching frantically for though the chamber was still and wholly unoccupied, he half-expected the dreaded pirate to come leaping out of the shadows at any moment. At first, he dared not breathe for fear his very air would stir the silent darkness. But his heart jumped and bumped frantically inside his chest as if to loudly remind him: _“Step lively and get us both out of here, you dolt!”_

It was not very difficult in the gloom to find Hook’s vanity table carved from handsome oak and very large indeed for the size of Hook’s vanity matched the size of its table. On the table sat boxes and bins of every description. Slightly, already shaken, was now thoroughly daunted. Overcoming the lump in his throat, he determinedly set upon each box, searching for the elusive symbol Wendy had spoken of. But there were so many and they all looked so much alike! One box contained nothing but handkerchiefs, another only lumps of soap. He searched above and below, underneath and through. He was nearly about to give up in despair when, upending a neat row of monocles and wigs atop of the vanity, he uncovered a small, rectangular container made of pale wood hidden amongst the wilderness of the captain’s effects.

A bright red X! There it was, louder than daylight! His heart beat fast as he snatched it up on his lap, nimble fingers scrambling to pry off the lid. Alas! The box was shut tight. What dreaded wonders dwelled inside that it should be so impossible for a child to pry open?

But Slightly was not a Lost Boy for nothing! Scavenging was his life’s occupation and there was no box in Neverland that could best him! 

After pawing and squinting for what felt like hours, he uncovered in a distant corner of the powder-dusted surface a heavy pin grown ups used to keep knickknacks from falling off their shirt collars. Easily bending it with his teeth, he jammed the pointed end beneath the smallest gap in the chest lid and pried it open with all his might. Red-faced and straining, the lid finally gave way with a pop and what a wonder did Slightly’s eyes behold! 

Bottles of every size and shape made of dark glass. A sharp, bitter scent wafted from the one he uncapped and quickly, he shut it again. Pills and syrups, powders and balms, he hadn’t he faintest idea of what they could be for but grown-ups surely required an abundance of them! He much preferred Wendy’s before-bed tonic which, being only pretend tonic, could taste of ripe strawberries if he closed his eyes, held his nose and forced it down.

Ever so quietly, he pushed the glass vials about in the little box, ever so careful not to make a single clink or chink. 

"If I were a magic stick, where would I keep meself?" He muttered. The box seemed to contain nothing but glass vials and droppers, rounded rusted tins of salve and the occasional dust ball. Just when he was about to give up, his fingers brushed against a small carved box about as long as Slightly's two index fingers laid tip to tip. He picked it up though it was difficult to see in the dim light. Grumbling at having to pry open yet another lid, he was glad when his curled fingers slid the wooden top off with ease.

At last his eyes fell on the coveted thin glass rod lying nestled in a lining of dark green velvet.

This had to be the thermo-mother! The magic stick that would make Peter well again! At least, Slightly prayed it was for he did not fancy going back to paw through Hook's treasures again.

Clutching the precious object in his hand, he was so beset by joy that, quite forgetting himself, he reared back his head and let out a triumphant crow. At the last moment, he clapped a terrified hand over his lips for he was still aboard the perilous Jolly Roger. Tucking the small glass stick safely in his boot, he hurtled like a shot out the open window.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” He cried, waving joyfully to Nibs who sat perched on a barrel of mead, hands folded daintily in his lap as he tolerated the flirtations of First Bosun Smee. Startled by the disruption, Smee shook his fist with a shout. 

"It be one of them rascals, aye!! But he be no match for First Bosun Smee!"

Nibs took that moment to fling off his disguise and tug it over Smee's head, the rush of his take off flapping the delicate hem in his wake.

"Oof! It be two of them! That be no lady at all!" Smee cried, red as a sunset when he pulled the tangled garment away. "Avast! Wake up, lads!"

The pirates slumbered on, oblivious to the hullabaloo taking place. Far above it, Nibs beamed with pride. 

“Well done, Slightly! Your first raid!” Nibs clapped him on the back. “Let’s get back to Peter straightaway!”

"I won't even slightly argue with that!" Slightly agreed, thrusting both arms ahead to dart in and out of the shafts created by the moon. 

Thus a victory ended. And poor Smee stayed up the entire night and morning after, never knowing that flowers were a bell that hath no ring.


	6. A Shadow of Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nibs and Slightly return with the Silver Lining and Wendy makes a decision.

Unbeknownst to Nibs and Slightly, the rest of their band were beginning to grapple with a slowly encroaching foe, one more sinister than a turned sprite and wickeder than the blackest hearted pirate. 

Boredom.

Boredom had brought along his twin brother Fret and together the miserable two played each lad a cruel game of wait and see.

Peter slept deeply and would not wake, not even when Wendy promised to tell a story all about him. Curly had returned some moments before dusk as the sun was covering itself up in its duvet of clouds. Bearing on his shoulders a clumsily hewn shard of dripping ice from the Ice King’s cavern, he was quite out of breath after flying so long and his teeth rattled in his mouth from the chill. The King kept his palace in a state of meticulous perfection and there was nothing Peter loved greater than spoiling whatever Neverland deigned to christen as perfect. Like a lad toppling down a tower of blocks, Peter Pan made constant pleasure of filching shimmering stalagmites of ice and breaking off chunks of the King’s frozen garden to make into snowballs. He thought it great fun despite the monarch’s fuming rants which amused him to no end.

A strange pity it seemed now that he was quite unable to appreciate Curly’s deed and its fruits.

It turned out, Curly had had to bargain very little with the disagreeable lord, conjuring up some story about a Christmas in July mandated by the Faeries. No actual pilfering was needed for which Wendy expressed some relief. She was already so overwhelmed with her new title of nurse, that she hadn’t the slightest use for a temperamental ice king. 

She was also overly glad to accept the chunk of bargained ice from him and ordered the twins to go about smashing it into more manageable pieces.  


Chips and glittery shavings soon spattered the room like a hailstorm and when the work was done, the twins were both red-cheeked and exhausted. Taking her tin cup, she filled it with a handful of ice chips from their rapidly melting pile on the floor and tried to coax Peter into taking some.  


Peter, who wavered in a stormy sea of grogginess, did not take kindly to the frozen shards she pressed against his parched lips. He turned his hot face away and groaned. The tiny dots of ice melted far too abruptly upon touching his overheated skin which made him cringe. But the little maid was insistent. One by one, she forced the jewel-like chips past his unwilling tongue and, without choice, he swallowed. By and by, the coolness and dampness began to agree with him and he settled more peacefully. 

Wendy smiled for this was one battle she had won. She vaguely recalled her own nurse, the devoted shaggy-eared sheep dog Nana, hunkering down at her bedside in satisfaction after stubbornly insisting with soft barks and gentle but stern nips to drink down every last drop of her medicine. She felt suddenly weary and longed for a comfortable place to sag against. The walls of the Treehouse were clean and smelled of comforting oak but she did not wish to stain her dress.

“Here Wendy.” Said John, pulling up Peter’s chair. “Since Father is not using it at the moment.”

Wendy nodded, feeling very queer indeed for seating herself in Pan’s chair. The Indians had carved it for him as a present and he treated it as a seat of honor. Had he been aware, Peter would likely have reddened with anger but as his own rules demanded he could never shove a lady, perhaps he would have allowed more exception for his nurse.

Wendy, for her part, let her weariness take her thoughts by the hand and lead them down into the heavy pit of her belly. She sighed in an effort to release them but they escaped through words she did not intend. 

“This is serious. If we don’t find a way break his fever, this could get dangerous.”

The word “serious” was a grown up term--a loathed utterance that made each one of them recoil the moment it left her lips. But the great matter of Peter’s sickness seemed to have added years to Wendy’s gaze thus they, too, began to feel the pull of dread in the bellies. 

“Dangerous? Like an adventure?” Tootles asked, eyes wide.

“An adventure one doesn’t find one’s way back from.” Wendy murmured.

“He is so still.” Muttered one of the twins forlornly. He folded his arms on the floor and kicked up his legs, keeping safe distance from Peter’s pallet.

“And so quiet.” Agreed his Twin.

“Peter is never still or quiet.” John clarified.

“I miss him.” Tootles whispered.

Before the weight of their thoughts threatened to spill from their eyes, a distant crowing sounded from above. Curly rubbed his ears and turned his head in the direction of the skylight.

“Why, it’s Nibs and Slightly!” Wendy cried, clasping her small hands.

“And they’ve returned with Peter’s silver lining!” Michael jumped to his feet.

“About time!” Tink emerged from her flower-petal dwelling to stomp her tiny foot. “I’m frankly amazed those two oafs managed to find their own thumbs, let alone a silver lining!”

It was a rather hushed and withdrawn Hero’s welcome that awaited the two on their return. Wendy’s pale face was pinched and sad but it began to glow once more with hope the moment they glided through the trap door.

“I’ve got it, Wendy! The magic stick that will save Peter!” Nibs puffed out his chest.

“Well, I slightly stole it but it was slightly Nibs’ plan.” Slightly added, catching his breath from the journey.

Wendy rose from Pan’s chair and without a single word, threw her arms around Slightly’s neck.

The boys gathered earnestly around, eyes big with wonder at the marvel Nibs held aloft in his fist. It was rather small and unimpressive in shape. Just a stick made of glass with a few curious white etchings carved into its side. It held no jewels or sharp pointy ends that would attract any attention. It did not seem capable of performing miracles but then again, in Neverland quite anything is possible. 

When they’d had their fill of gazing at the mysterious object, with great ceremony Nibs dropped to one knee and presented it to Wendy. She planted a kiss on the top of his head which he brushed away quickly, cheeks aflame. 

Wendy knew the proper use of a thermometer as it always appeared in Mother’s apron pocket the moment any of them showed the slightest chill. It was a mother’s realm to take charge of it, keep it safely tucked away and study it every now and again, sometimes with a grim shake of the head and other times with a sweet breath of relief.

Convincing Peter Pan to be a good boy and hold it under his tongue for any length of time would take some cunning.

Wendy gathered her wits about her and approached the pallet.

“Peter,” She knelt down, calmly tucking her skirt beneath her. “We’re having a contest to see who can hold a twig under their tongue the longest. You’ll have to join too so you can win. Open up?” 

Peter’s heavy head rolled in the direction of her voice, lashes fluttering. With great effort, he lifted his lids the tiniest crack and Wendy was shocked to observe his brown eyes unfocused and glazed, as though they were not really seeing anything at all.

“No.” His words rasped frail and brittle as an Autumn leaf. “Hook. Here. Forbidden!”

Michael frowned. “Hook here? Peter isn’t making much sense.”

“Hush, Michael.” Wendy turned back to Peter, her voice firmer this time. “Peter, we must have your temperature now. You must do as mother says.” Her voice trembled a little. “Just…just for a moment.” 

By some rare miracle, Peter obeyed and opened his mouth./ Wendy, wasting no time at all, slipped the silver lining gently beneath his tongue and held it there, anxiously eyeing the scarlet line of mercury as it crept higher and higher up the tiny glass ladder. Every breath in the treehouse stilled, as though waiting for a dropped thimble to roll clean off the edge of a table.

Only Wendy could decode the vague writings etched on the side of the enigmatic stick. Peter was glad to be rid of it, falling back against his newly stitched pillow in exhaustion when she finally pinched it between her thumb and forefinger. She held it aloft aiming to see by moonlight but it was much too dark inside the underground dwelling to see such tiny markings. 

“Tink? Would you be so kind?”

The ill-tempered faerie fluttered from her front porch to hover above the glass rod in Wendy’s hand. Her pale iridescent glow illuminated the clear sides of the instrument and Wendy squinted to see where the hairlike silver line trapped inside had fallen. Her eyes finally adjusted and the height of the scarlet line seemed to distress her. 

“Oh dear. Peter has got one hundred and three lines of temperature.” Wendy confirmed.

“Is that too many lines?” Nibs asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Seems like a lot.” Slightly’s shoulder sagged, disappointed that the stick had not made Peter well again as he’d hoped.

She tucked the thermometer into her apron. 

“The silver lining only tells us how hot Peter is from the inside. When you’re too hot, it means something inside you is fighting a difficult battle.”

“Fighting what?” Asked Tootles.

“Could it be the spirits from that silly spring? Are they the ones causing all this?” Curly mused.

“I don’t know that spirits cause fevers.”

“We can all agree that Peter has his moments of brashness but he meant no harm to the spirits by drinking from the spring.” John noted reasonably.

“It slightly doesn’t seem a fair trade.” Slightly agreed. “All he took was a little water, that’s no reason to give back a fever.”

"We must do all we can, then, to bring it down." Said Wendy.

"Aye, lady." Nibs agreed, a weariness to his voice she had not heard before. "But we've nothing to give him save the tonic you render to all of us before bedtime."

“Well, there’s nothing for it.” Wendy rose from her spot on the floor. “I shall have to see Great Big Little Panther in the morning and ask him for some medicine.” She took four steps about the room and gently blew out the night lights which were just lumps of wax stuck with a burning wick. “Into bed, boys! It’s past your bedtime!”

“Mother?” Tootles reached up and tugged Wendy’s skirt. “You’ll be sure to give Father his medicine as usual, right?”

“Yes, Tootles. Now off to bed.”

Tootles yawned and toddled gladly, for once, to his basket bed lined with soft leaves. The fretting of the day had made him awfully sleepy. In very little time, the band of boys was snoring. Some in their hammocks and others in piles of limbs on the cool ground. Even Tink had retired, her delicate breaths adding to the nocturnal chorus.

Wendy, however, was very much awake and now very much alone. She busied herself preparing Peter’s medicine, which was really just a few drops of water from the rain bucket folded carefully in a banana leaf.

“How very odd.” Thought she as she bent over the bucket. “My head feels heavy as a boulder! My eyes are burning so and begging to close yet I cannot close them.” 

Abandoning these thoughts, she rose and carried the little leaf in her hands. A glimmer of something like hope fluttered in her chest though she knew (as girls tended to be wiser about such things) that the rain water was not real medicine; that neither she nor the leaf in her hands held even the slightest power to deliver Peter from his pain. Yet dutifully, she knelt once more by his side and gently roused him.

“Peter?” She spoke into the empty silence surrounding him. “It’s time for your medicine.”

The eternal youth stirred at her command, restless and wandering in dreams. Trembling, his thin arm lifted, outstretched in the gloom as though searching. But the effort cost much of his ebbing strength and soon it fell back down and he sank further into oblivion, deathly still.

 _He is sailing away on a sea we cannot breach._ She thought. Lowering her voice, she whispered desperately. “Oh Peter, you must fight. Harder than any pirate duel. Fight”. 

Seizing his warm hand in hers, she rubbed it vigorously, trying to stir some life back into his fingers. Peter lay very quiet and hardly seemed to breathe. Forgetting all about the medicine, the leaf unfurled and spilled tiny cold dew points into her lap. Frightened, she laid her hand on his breast.

“They are young. The boys. Danger is still a game to them, they don’t understand. But Peter, I am so afraid. Oh Peter, if you were to go…”

She had begun to despair, shining tear tracks down her cheek. Her chin trembled but she remembered that mothers must be brave and never cry in front of their children. 

“Dearest boy, if your light were to go out, what will become of this beloved aisle? What is to become of us? Please Peter, don’t give up. Dying is not a great adventure at all if we can’t go with you!”

Suddenly his heart gave a firm twist and a leap beneath her fingers, as if to assure her that it would prevail. 

Her fingers trailed down to the pocket of her dress where, hidden among the folds, lay a precious item. A kiss she had been saving for him. She plucked it out now and laid it in his still hand. A tiny dome of metal, no bigger than her thumb.

“I wanted to give this to you for so very long.” She whispered, stroking his cheek. “Say you’ll keep it close to you so that one day perhaps…” Here she caught her lips between her teeth for it was too painful to think of the future. Tomorrow was for later and Peter must survive in a time called now.

Wendy started at the sudden angry flutter of wings.

“Oh who can sleep with a great big noisy girl in the house!” Tinkerbell grumbled.

The tiny sprite hovered over Peter’s flushed face. She beat her wings rapidly back and forth, fanning his fevered forehead and cooling the air around him. Peter sighed as if caught up in a pleasant dream, peace once again overtaking his face. 

“No one must ever touch me,” He muttered deliriously as though quoting a serious rule book. 

“Oh you brilliant stupid boy. What am I to do with you?” Her small fingers on his brow were tender though he recoiled, too weak to cast her off and too exhausted to care. Neverland itself dreamed, adrift on a wave of darkness so vast and so black, one could not find the end of it even with a grown up spy glass. No star to see by and no friendly wind, yet the little maid held tight to the helm and would not let go.


	7. Half a Remedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy travels to the Indians to seek the advice of Great Big Little Panther

Morning came as it must to Neverland, the first golden rays painting the leaves outside in watercolor hues of papaya and gold. Birds gossiped with their families and the animals that had been wide awake all night were now nestling down in their mossy beds. It was Pan’s custom to rouse his household with a pealing crow that rang through the tunnels and shook the very fragile leaves on their twigs. But on this particular dawn, Peter’s mysterious silence made even the sun itself cautious, as if politely waiting its turn to ascend.  


Wendy did not remember falling asleep on the cool damp Earth of the Treehouse floor. The moment she raised her head, she felt absurdly out of place. Her bleary eyes blinked into to the sun finally mustering up enough courage to show its face without Peter’s leave. Feeling quite rumpled and achy, she rose from her spot beside Peter and stretched her arms above her head with a ladylike yawn.

“Oh dear. How is it tomorrow already?” Misted pictures of the previous day rose like sea foam to the surface of her memory. The Harvest Games, the Spring, Pan’s fever and the terrible restless night. About to leap up and rush to find her apron to begin breakfast, she started when she remembered today was not to be any other day. Peter lay still in the depth of dreaming, dark hair mussed and stuck to his brow. His chest rose and fell at a rapid pace as though he were being pursued by some terrible thing. She bent over him and lightly touched his cheek.

“Still an awful lot of fever.” She sighed for she needed no magic stick to tell her what her fingers already knew.

At that moment, Nibs tumbled out of his bed—fashioned from the former nicked crow’s nest of the Jolly Roger—and rubbed the sleep dust from his eyes.

“I say, is it a holiday?” He asked, tucking his bearskin cap over his head to contain the shock of straw colored hair. “Has Peter forgotten to crow?”

Wendy shook her head. “I’m afraid you’ll have to crow in his stead. Nibs. Peter is still not well.”

Nibs frowned. Leadership was something he’d always fancied from afar and now that he had the whole messy weight of it in his lap, he felt alarmingly uncertain as to managing it. Bracing himself, he pulled in the deepest breath, letting the air fill his lungs to the very peak and wondering exactly how much he would need to shake the very leaves with his crow. His pale brows drew together and his merry blue eyes sought Wendy’s, seeking some approval.

“Go on, Nibs.” Wendy smiled. “I am sure Peter won’t mind.”

Nibs nodded, his confidence restored. Throwing back his head, he opened his mouth wide and unleashed a pealing crow.

“We’re up Peter!” The Twins cried, leaping from the floor. “We’re—oh.” Their faces fell to find Peter still abed and Nibs, cupping his hands over his mouth, ready to let loose another crow.

“Good morning, boys.” Wendy laughed at the look of shocked confusion on each boy’s face at discovering the new anomaly.

“Are you the Pan now?” Beside Nibs, Tootles looked up from his place beside Nibs’ hip bone.

“Yes! Sort of! Not at all!” Nibs crossed his arms and puffed out his chest. “I am only crowing in Father’s place until he is well again.”

“I was sure I’d been dreaming the day before.” John said glumly. “But it looks like it was real after all.”

“This adventure is very queer.” Said Curly. “Not sure to say I like it.”

The venom of Tink’s stubborn voice contrasted with the delicacy of her chime. “When you follow a stupid ass like Peter Pan, you shouldn’t expect to like every flummox he gets into!” 

The Faerie stood on the ornately carved perch Peter had fashioned for her from whale bone. Still wearing her pale blue silk night robe, she appeared frumpy and barely risen.

“My word Tink, is it well to speak of Peter like that when he is so ill?” John pushed his glasses higher on his nose.

“Is it well to go about drinking forbidden water against the advice of Faeries?” She huffed back.

Wendy lifted her voice. “It is not well of anyone, Faerie or no, to bicker at such times. Tink, you are Peter’s Faerie. Surely, you can be trusted to watch over him while I am away.”  


Tink turned up her tiny nose and disappeared into her house. She was not about to take orders from girls, least of all girls she did not particularly like.

“Well, someone’s got to steer this raft!” Nibs declared. “And until he’s well again, I sort of officially dub this adventure SAVE FATHER!”

Nibs bowed his head to receive the reluctant outburst of obligatory applause. No sooner had Peter’s replacement been begrudgingly sworn in when there presented a tantalizing distraction. A growing patch of cool mud remained where the previous day’s ice mountain once stood and Wendy frowned, not wishing the boys to discover it and decide it was time for a mud battle. 

“Gentlemen!” She clapped her hands. “Gather round please. I have some very important things to say before we soil our hands and get quite ahead of ourselves.”

“Awww!” Tootles glumly replacing the oozing mud pie clutched in his fist, patting it back down neatly into the ground for later use. As soon as eight obedient pairs of eyes were fixed on her, she cleared her throat and addressed them in the most solemn tone she could muster.

“As you know, Father is very sick. We must keep him cool by placing wet towels on his forehead and changing them often.”

“Does that mean we can’t play today?”

“Not until Peter--I mean Father is well again. I’m to call upon Great Big Little Panther this afternoon to see if he can make some medicine. So you must remain here to mind Peter by yourselves.”

“By ourselves?” A Twin asked.

“Mind Peter?” His brother echoed.

The boys exchanged uneasy glances. They were quite used to either Peter himself or Wendy telling them what to do at all times, merry or otherwise.

“I shall be back as soon as I can.” She said and tried to keep the firmness in her voice aligned with that of her backbone. “Watch over him well and he must have nothing but very clean water or pretend medicine. Keep him cool, calm and quiet as you can until I return.”

“You can count on us, Mother!” Nibs set his fist to palm. “Never fear!”

“Thank you boys." She turned and spotted Slightly who, having woken up a full hiccup after everyone else, was just groggily pulling his day cap over his scruffy head. "Slightly, you’re in charge of breakfast.”

Quite taken aback, Slightly nearly fell over his own feet. 

“M-me?”

“Yes, you. Last night you proved yourself adept at finding impossible things in most desperate circumstances. Your men are hungry, go find them some breakfast!”

Slightly’s chest puffed out possible even more than Nibs and he was bigger than all the boys. With a bow and a salute, he flew off fast as a dart to collect banyan fruit and mash-em-up leaves. Wendy, having wrapped her shawl about her shoulders to make herself more presentable, knelt down once more by Peter’s side. Taking his hand in hers, she planted a small kiss on the ridge of his knucklebone.

“I won’t be long, Peter. I promise.” She’d spoken words meant to comfort but Peter tossed his head and moaned as though he hadn’t heard, still caught fast in the grip of his dark dreaming. His twitching eyelids fluttered, longing to open yet stilled by some unseen force.

“Don’t fly away.” She whispered. “Stay on the ground, Peter Pan.”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
Wendy knew the way to the Indian Encampment well enough on her own yet, as she soared above the trees, her heart eased to spot a pale gray smudge guiding the trail from below.

“Why, it’s Nico! My wolf!” She breathed. “He’ll be sure I don’t fly astray.”

The girl followed the noble beast’s path in and out of the vast winding wood until at last she spied the tiers of the Picaninnys’ tall canvas dwellings poking out from the thatch of pine. Nico awaited her at the edge of the encampment, panting and whining with joy. Wendy landed lightly on her feet, her skirts fluttering about her ankles.

“Oh my friend!” She knew better than to touch Nico or let her fingers stray anywhere near the wild creature’s shaggy ruff. He was not, after all, a dog. “Thank you for helping me.” 

It felt so good not to be alone, even for the company of a wolf.

Where she had last seen a tribe bustling with activity—graceful women in their buckskin dresses and gleaming plaits tending corn and sun-browned children playing with their clay marbles and corn husk dolls—there was now not the slightest hint of life. Even Tiger Lily, most visible of her stealthy people, was nowhere to be seen. Indeed she felt glad of the company of her wolf guide, should any unknown danger be lurking about.

“Where is everybody?” She wondered out loud, wandering the silent grounds and feeling colder with each step. “Tiger Lily?” She cried out. “Hard to Hit?”

From the still quiet tents stirred no breath or the slightest hint of life. It was not hard to locate Great Big Little Panther’s teepee for his was the largest and painted with the most elaborate of designs of the sun and moon. Words in a phrases Wendy could not begin to decipher wound in patterns across the great hide walls. But of the Picaninny Shaman himself there was no sign. Nico halted before the canvas flap that was the teepee’s only entrance and laid his great head in his paws. He seemed content to wait. Wendy decided that if Nico was not troubled, neither was she. But the thought of Peter lying in bed back at home made her heart tremble. 

“Oh Nico, where could they have gone?”

No sooner had she spoken when a brown spotted eagle perched atop the landing of the great teepee. A sudden wind quickened the air, making the wolf’s ear prick up sharply. From beneath her feet, the ground itself seemed to mutter to itself. Wendy looked about frantically, sensing something on the verge of awakening when the bird’s cry startled her. When she had recovered herself, she stood amazed to be standing in the shadow of the one person she had traveled far to see.

“Great Big Little Panther!” She gasped, trembling badly. “What has happened? Where is everyone?”

He stood regal in his bearskin robes and scarlet face paint, his dark eyes shining with a hidden light. His voice when he spoke was neither soft nor loud but held a power that transfixed her.

“A sunset ago, the spirits spoke to me and were greatly troubled. An imbalance had set them off and made them wholly enraged. I sent Tiger Lily and Hard to Hit into the wood to find the source of the great trouble and see if they could mend what harm had been done.” 

At these words, Wendy fought the urge to burst into tears.

“Please, Big Little Panther. You must help me! I…I believe I know the cause of all this undoing.”

“Let us not speak where the trees may overhear.” He lifted his strong arm and parted the canvas flap. “Enter.”

Nico raised his heavy body up from the ground and bent his head in farewell. “Goodbye Nico.” Wendy waved to his retreating form as it vanished into the surrounding wood. “And thank you.”

The interior of the teepee was warm and quite cozy and smelled of deep smoke and herbs. There were no chairs but the ground had been padded with moss and damp wood shavings, the scent of which instantly calmed her. The Shaman seated himself and, as if by magic, the embers in the center hearth glowed to greet him. With the calm demeanor of a lake at sunrise, he regarded Wendy’s pale countenance.

“Now. Tell me what has happened, Little Maid.”

Wendy clutched her hands in her lap to keep them from fluttering but tried to breathe steadily enough to keep her words in the order they should be. 

“Peter drank from a Forbidden Spring even though Tink warned him that he oughtn’t. Now he has fallen gravely ill!”

“What are his symptoms?”

“He is very weak and has all but lost the ability to fly. Even Tink’s faerie dust doesn’t help. Since he drank the water, he’s gotten pains in his head and burns with a fever. When he speaks, his words tangle up in themselves and I can’t wake him.” Despite herself, she could feel the heat behind her eyes threatening to spill down her cheeks.

The shaman’s gaze grew stormy, his dark expression cold enough to make the embers dim.

“This Land has laws which even Brave Flying Eagle must obey. Pan has committed a serious offense against the Spirits.” 

“But he meant no harm!” Wendy pleaded. “It was only a few drops of water.”

“The offense may have been simple, Little Maid, but that does not mean the remedy will be.”

“I don’t understand.” Wendy frowned.

“Pan took water that was never meant for any living being to consume. The spirits of the forbidden forest do not exact a small fee for those who do not obey their rules. The children of our tribe are taught from birth their ways to better respect them.”

“But can’t you make him some medicine? The Picaninny Tribe are learned in every branch, twig and flower in Neverland! Surely, you must know something that can cure him!”

The wise man’s dark skin glowed softly in the firelight of his canvas dwelling, his brow stern. 

“It is not as simple. Alas, none of my medicine has the ability to cure Brave Flying Eagle or absolve him from his wrongdoing. That will require something far stronger. The Spirits of the Forbidden Spring are powerful and their curses are not easily undone. He has taken water from their sacred spring and for that crime the spirits may demand his life.”

“No!” Wendy uttered a cry of despair. “Peter cannot die! What will become of Neverland if he should perish? Please Great Big Little Panther, there must be something we can do!”

The Shaman averted his eyes and he spoke as if from a distant place.

“Pan’s adventures have granted him many perils but I fear this one, daughter of the fog, will demand medicine far more powerful than any I possess.”

“Please! We will do anything to save him!”

A great heaviness overcame the Shaman’s shoulders but he took up his beaded pouch and opened it, pinching between two fingers what appeared to be a small amount of glittering sand. This he sprinkled into the flames, whispering some words as he did so. The embers glowed brighter, taking on now a faint bluish hue and Wendy watched in wonder as they began to surge and dim, as though communicating by some mystic allowance. Wendy’s eyes grew wider and wider as the strange conversation passed without a word spoken. At last the flames settled into smoke and Great Big Little Panther released a long, slow breath.

“The runes have spoken. To make the medicine that may save Pan’s life will require three drops of blood, no more and no less.”

“Is that all?” Wendy cried. “Why, if I were to prick my finger with my sewing needle, I could gladly give him any number of my blood.”

“I have not finished. Yes, three drops. However, these must be drawn from the a sworn enemy. Only his blood carries the medicine strong enough to cure Peter Pan.”  
Wendy felt as though she had been struck very hard in the stomach.

“Captain Hook!” Wendy cried, aghast. “Can it be? How are we ever going to fetch any blood from a pirate?”

Wendy had always pictured the heart of Captain James Hook to resemble a prune—a blackened, shriveled up thing so worn by years of villainy and brine that it bled only bitter sap and foul intent. Had he any blood to spare at all?

The shaman seemed to take pity on her for he reached into his bear cloak and pulled out a wrapped bundle packed tightly together with leaves.

“These herbs hold magic enough to break Pan’s fever but not to chase away the visions that plague his mind. Brew them until the potion turns black and add the blood only just before dawn’s break. Only then will the Spirits of the Spring be appeased and restore Pan.”

Wendy accepted the bundle with shaking hands, her thoughts bounding hither and thither. Placing the small package in her apron pocket, she bowed her head in wordless thanks to the man for his aid.

“Little Maid, the love you bear for Pan is a powerful force and must not be left out of this brew.” The Shaman spoke gently. “But the love of the devoted is not enough to break this magic. In our tribe, the strongest medicine is the love of an enemy. To strike a man without hurting him is our greatest coup.”

“I do not fully understand these dreadful Spirits or what punishment they wish to exact upon Peter. He is not wicked, only careless.” She insisted. The wise man shook his head. 

“It is not I who has been wronged. Pan brought this upon himself. Disobedience without learning will forever be his undoing.”  


Wendy found herself quite out of words so she curtsied and floated back up into the gathering clumps of cloud, careful not to drop the bundle of Big Little Panther’s medicine. In truth, it was only half a remedy but if it could ease the fire that burned beneath his skin, she would boil it up at once. 

_“Oh Peter, you are doomed!”_ Wendy’s heart sank deep into despair as she watched the camp grow smaller and smaller beneath her. _“Unless we might, by chance, convince Hook to prick his finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel?”_


	8. A Neverending Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Darling reassess the state of things while watching over Peter and discovers his sister's shoes most difficult to fill.

In the trees and caverns, the faeries whispered to eachother.

Beneath the beating waves, the mermaids gossiped and murmured.

The salty sea dogs searched the empty skies for mischief and for the first time in a long time found nothing but clouds.

Neverland was changing. 

The trees drooped for they were lonely without Peter and the Lost Boys to climb their branches and scratch away at their itchy trunks.

The mountains sulked silently for what good were their perilous slopes without small climbers to tumble down them?

Even the perilous secrets and deep mysteries of the Faerie Realm shrugged their shoulders and gave up all hope of ever being discovered.

Neverland itself was slowly sinking into a state of complicit normalcy.

The Underground Treehouse was sullen. Everything down to its very scent had changed and not for better. From the lingering smell of sweet moss and hidden laughter to dank despair and rank stuffiness. The unsettling quiet that loomed and filled up every unoccupied space was altogether different from the peaceful evenings of storytime about the hearth or the hour just before sleep crept in. The transformation was disagreeable to all and Peter would surely have thrown a passion over it were he not now succumbed to his illness.

For the boys, this tempting adventure which had been so new and exciting mere hours ago, soon learned that being ill was not a bit fun for anyone, least of all Pan. After a gloomy breakfast of fruits and boiled mash, the Lost Boys had organized in shifts over the care of Peter. Nibs called it the changing of the guard though there was nothing as thrilling as a pirate or ill wind to liven up the achingly slow passage of time. For the most part, playing nurse involved a lot of waiting and watching and fetching with very little reward in turn. It was dreary, tedious, endless work and more than one of the grumbling youths muttered that the like was not made for He. Indeed each lad resolved internally that it took an extraordinary kind of someone to watch over and guard the sick.

As the hour grew dimmer and dimmer, the boys took turns shouldering the weariness of the burdensome day. The mud pit had all but dried up and become pointless again. There were no stories or unexpected guests, no mysteries or even the tiniest hint of an adventure lurking about. As Wendy had instructed, they changed the flannel on his brow and kept their voices as low as they could so as not to disturb him.

“Ought we take his temperature again?” Mused one twin who had seen no improvement in Peter’s condition since the first reading but then the instrument might have been faulty. 

“Not unless we intend to give it back.” Agreed the other, idly picking at a loose hem on his trousers begging to be freed. Wendy had been so occupied tending Peter, she’d neglected every dangling thread and expanding hole in their garments.

“Steady on lads, Mother will be back soon with medicine and then he shall be the same Peter again!” Said John. For indeed the boy that slumbered before them was altogether a very different Peter. 

“I wonder where he has flown to? His body is here to be sure but it seems so weak and hollow.” The elder Twin murmured. “How can a person be who they are and yet not be?”

The eldest son of the Darling household pondered this question. Raised to be just like Father, he knew well the subordination rituals of becoming a gentleman. What was proper, what was not and what was to be left well alone. For him, Peter Pan was the adventurous youth he’d always envied. Bent for hours over his textbooks, he’d glance outside his window to spy the ragged and carefree chimney sweeps playing catch in the nearby park or running bare-legged in the heat of summer while he itched and sweated in his starched school uniform. While the better part of him clung to the common sense of hard work and discipline, a tiny fragment of his soul longed to rip the shirt collar free, toss aside his polished shoes and woolen socks, and go running barefooted in the grass. For him, every adventure with Peter Pan had been a joyous foray into the forbidden but now…

Before him, the youth of his envy slumbered still as though dead and John once again found himself absently touching the invisible shirt collar wrapped about his throat. For before him lay the consequences of not heeding and worst of all--not abiding one’s betters. For all the acclaimed text and rigor of his education, there were volumes of truth kept hidden from the eyes of John Darling. Those same wild boys he watched playing in the streets returned to the workhouses of London, crammed together in unspeakably filthy quarters without a breath of fresh air between them. Of this, John was fairly ignorant but as he changed the now-warm and dried up flannel on Peter’s burning brow, he began to sort anew his wisdom altogether.

Was Peter Pan now to be done in by his own rashness? But such was the very nature of Pan. While he’d like to wag his finger and declare: “Told you so”, Peter was far too gone in fever to take any note. How was one to educate the unrestrained ethos of youth eternal?  


The fresh coldness of the new damp cloth settled Peter once more and he stopped tossing beneath his blanket. His chest rose and fell regularly with his breathing, now indisputably asleep.

Crouching low, John pressed his ear over Peter’s breast, listening intently for the tremulous beat of his heart. Immediately his sensitive ears picked up an unsteady thumping though it skipped on occasion like a boulder bounding down a rickety slope.

“Steady on, sir.” He whispered to it. “Never surrender. Not for a moment.”

“Is Peter going away?” The Twin nearest him scratched his head.

“Is it a much better place than Neverland?” Asked Tootles.

“I imagine so.” John sighed, worrying at his fingernail. He disliked questions with no calculable solution but reckoned younger boys could not tell the difference.

“May we go too?”

“I don’t believe we can.”

“Have you been there?”

“No.”

“Then how’d you know there exists?”

“Many smart people who have read many books all claim it does so I suppose it does.” John offered the most agreeable reply he could manage but even that felt inadequate.

Nibs wandered away from his spot at the spyhole to hunker down beside John. “Hmph! I don’t believe in any place that I can’t throw a stone into.”

John shrugged, not entirely sure how to engage such a statement. Furthermore, it unsettled his already scrambled and agitated imagination. He wished fervently for Wendy to appear for she was much wiser about answering difficult questions.

To everyone’s startlement, Peter unexpectedly opened his mouth and spoke.

“Wendy?” His voice was a wisp, so weak that it seemed to belong not to him but someone else entirely.

Nibs frowned. “Does he not know that Mother is away?”

“I don’t believe he does.” John said, clasping Peter’s hand in hopes to rouse him. Speaking low and calm, he addressed Peter who refused to open his eyes. “Wendy isn’t here now, Peter.”

Peter moaned and uttered Wendy’s name once more, as though begging for a drink of cold water in a parched desert. This alarmed John further though he made no sign of it, replacing Peter’s hand on his chest and patting it firmly. 

“She will come, Peter. Just be patient. You must wait.”

“Why does he call for Wendy when she is not here?” Nibs asked. 

“I’m afraid he is delirious.” John said, eager to use a grown up medical word he’d tucked away in his brain. 

“What does dele-terious mean?” Nibs wanted to know.

 _“Delirious,”_ John corrected. “Is a word that doctors use to mean one’s brains getting addled from growing too hot.”

“Can it happen to anyone?” Queried Curly, visibly alarmed.

“I suppose so, yes. Anyone who lets the top of their head grow too hot may become delirious and imagine things that are not there.”

Curly shuddered, tugging his cap further down his ears to protect his head. “Not I.” He vowed. “I’d never let old man sun sizzle my brains like sausages!”

“It doesn’t quite work that way.” John attempted to explain. “When a person has fallen ill, their temperature rises to fend off any wee beasties that come to invade their insides.”

The eyes of every Lost Boy widened at the mention of “wee beasties” and invasion. Could Peter be on such a solitary adventure even now though his knife remained sheathed in his boot and his eyes were barely open? Illness was indeed very new and frightful to them but not one of them imagined Peter would or could be conquered by such a foe.

“When will Wendy return d’you think?” One of the Twins wondered out loud. “I tire of sitting all day.”

John suddenly held a newfound appreciation for his sister’s unflagging ability to sit for hours on end, knitting and darning endless torn socks and sewing on pocket after pocket. Girls were truly astounding creatures and far better suited to nursing by his estimation.

“I hope soon.” John felt his belly rumbling angrily. “It’s about time for supper.”

“Wendy…” Moaned Peter over and over again, once more stirring restlessly. His flushed cheek could no longer find the cool spot on his new pillow. “Wendy…”

“Perhaps he means ‘water’?” Slightly reasoned, picking up the drinking pail and filling it with cold water from Wendy’s stone pitcher. Lugging the wooden bucket and its dipper, he pulled in a generous ladleful and offered it to Peter.

“Here Peter. I’ve some cold water for you to drink?”

Incredibly, Peter shot up in his bed, one wandering hand seizing the dipper from Slightly’s grip. Draining it greedily, he lunged next for the half full bucket itself. Slightly, shaking off his frozen stupor, tried uselessly to appeal to him.

“Hey! Peter, slow down! You’ll slightly choke if you—“

But Peter did not listen and when he had roughly slaked his thirst from the bucket, to everyone’s collective shock he proceeded to dump the remaining contents of the bucket over his head, soaking his hair and bedding entirely. With a careless toss, the now drained bucket clattered against the wall behind him.

The Boys and John sat dumbstruck at Peter’s erratic behavior, half sat up and dripping wet, staring blankly at no fixed point. The gathered Lost Boys could hardly blink for what they had witnessed. Under any normal occasion, upturning a bucket of water over one's head was a source or merriment and laughter. But none dared breathe, let alone laugh now. 

“Oh Peter…” Tootles whispered in horror. “You’ve got your bedclothes soggy. Mother will be very displeased.”

Peter paused, breathing heavily for an extended heart-pounding moment. None dared move or speak to him as he seemed still locked in dreaming, quite out of his senses. It was clear to all that Peter was quite unaware of his drenched state or the terrified gazes upon him. Before a single one of them could move, he closed his eyes and grimaced, collapsing back upon his pallet with a pained groan as though he were being punished by his own head for his outburst. 

“I…guess he was slightly thirsty.” Slightly breathed, quickly gathering up the discarded dipper and bucket.

“Oh Wendy, please hurry back.” John prayed. 

Little did he know that far up in the evening sky, Wendy was swiftly approaching the Underground Treehouse and would very fast be among them to discover all that had transpired in her absence. Though she carried all their hopes safe in her one little pocket, there would sooner be a greater knot for this worrisome ordeal to unravel...


	9. Mistress Wendy Strikes a Deal with a Villain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wendy travels alone to the Jolly Roger to beg the more sinister half of Peter's medicine

The moment Wendy’s small foot tapped solid ground, she instantly set about righting whatever in her immediate sight deemed out of sorts. Such was the natural behavior of mothers and the doubly shaken and relieved expressions that greeted her reconfirmed that she had been terribly missed.

Seeing Peter mysteriously drenched, she rushed to him, immediately patting his face and hair dry as best she could with the corner of her skirt. Peter in his unconsciousness roused a mite at her ministrations and perhaps sensing her presence, sighed deeply.

“He’ll need a new shirt.” She declared. “We mustn’t leave him in soggy clothes.” 

“But Peter hasn’t got any other shirt.” Nibs chewed his lip. 

Peter’s original garments had been stitched himself before receiving a proper darning from Wendy. He was not in the habit of being measured for new ones. The shirt he now wore was made up of an orchestra of patches and hastily tacked on leaves and leather. He’d never had the time or care to require a spare.

“Then I suppose he will just have to go without.” Sighed she. “Boys, will you help?”

Help the Boys were quite willing to give as they were gladdened beyond words to have a Mother again telling them what to do. However, the deed proved more difficult than expected as Peter fought them like a hellion, convinced in his overheated head that they were pirates. It was quite an awful scene, truth to be told, and all were very red in the face and breathing like bellows from the melee when it was done. Tootles managed to crawl atop Peter’s stomach and keep him anchored to the pallet while between them, each Twin gripped tight to a flailing arm, bent on finding the blade hidden away in one boot.

“Avast, ye scurvy dogs!” Peter growled. “Belay this mutiny or I’ll keelhaul the lot!”

Where Peter had gotten the strength to bellow the way he did was a mystery they hadn’t the manpower nor the coordination to pin down as they were all too occupied with keeping Peter’s knuckles well away from their jaws. 

“Peter! Be still! It is us! Your men!” Grunted Curly.

“We’re trying to help like Mother Wendy said!” Tootles pleaded. “Do settle down!”

With some shouldering and quite a lot of ungentle shoving, they managed to wrestle away Peter’s damp cloak and vest, leaving him bare-chested and presumably cooler. A dry but threadbare blanket was found and flung hastily over him to make him presentable before a lady. Peter himself did manage to quiet down once freed of his wet, sticky clothing.

“Mother, we’re so glad you’re here!” Slightly gasped, hands on knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“You all look like you have seen a ghost!” She remarked. “What has happened?”

Michael, being the youngest, was eager to be the first to recount events.

“Father has been acting most strangely! When Slightly brought him some cool water from the dipper, he wouldn’t drink politely from the cup! He seized the bucket from us and dumped the whole lot over his head and made a frightful mess of his bedding!” 

“We want the old Peter back!” Bawled Tootles. “Not Peter isn’t Peter in the least! He makes no sense when he speaks, isn’t at all interested in games! He cannot fly, cannot fight and he…” His lower lip quivered. “…he cannot crow!”

“Oh dear.” Wendy murmured. “Peter has become delirious!”

Nibs perked at this observation. “I know that word!” His face darkened once more. “On second thought, I wish I didn’t know it.”

“Please say you’ve brought medicine to make Peter well again?” John, who had suffered enough outburst for one afternoon, panted on one knee.

Wendy withdrew Great Big Little Panther’s sachet of herbs from her pocket. 

“Is THAT it?” Curly frowned as though he’d been expecting ground up unicorn horn. “How will a handful of grass help Father?” 

“This grass is special.” Wendy explained, gingerly unwrapping the tiny bundle. “Big Little Panther said it would help his fever. However, I am afraid it is only half a remedy.”

“Then where is the other half?” 

Wendy’s small shoulders sagged. “Big Little Panther said we must get three drops of blood…”

John clapped his hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “I say!”

“…pricked from the thumb of Captain Hook.”

The boys' eyes sparkled. At last, some real sport!

Nibs covertly tested the sharpness of his sword, running the pad of one finger down its razor edge. With just the barest nick, he felt confident that he could draw the needed blood before the villainous Codfish even had time to cock his pistol. 

“Right. We’ll need a plan then!” Nibs nodded his eager head. “We’ll sneak aboard in the dead of night and then—“

“You forget, we’ve already slightly snuck aboard. The Pirates will be alert to any trouble from us now.” Slightly muttered.

“Pirates aren’t very smart, mostly mean.” Nibs shot back. “And in any case, we can fight them off if we—“

His rebuttal was cut short by a furious ringing.

“A Pirate battle? Is that what I’m hearing?” Tinkerbell poked her head out from the petals of her private apartment. “Leave it to great big Wendy girls to lead us all into another mountain of trouble when Peter is sick!”

“Aw Tink, you never want to have any fun!” Nibs shot back.

"What part of Peter Pan dying is FUN to you, nitwit?" Tink screeched.

“Tink, please listen. Great Big Little Panther said…” Wendy began.

“I’m sure he said plenty!” The irritated Sprite groused, one hand on her hip. “But he’s a grown up and the things grown-ups say never bode good or ill with Peter Pan!”

“But without Hook’s blood, the potion will be useless. Poor Peter will be trapped in nightmares forever!” Cried Wendy.

“Don’t believe all things grown-ups tell you. There’s always more than one way to mend a broken stitch in Neverland.”

Wendy by now was on the verge of frustrated tears for she was quite done being belittled by faeries and her anxiety for Peter was nearing its peak. John, who could not help but pity his sister, placed his hand on her shoulder.

“I for one have no desire to go to war with a ruffian like Hook.” He admonished. “It seems to me we ought to use diplomacy to win our boon. Engage the rules of parlay.”

The Lost Boys slumped their shoulders. “So no stabbing?” Nibs asked, kicking his foot against a stump.

“Peter’s life is at stake.” As she spoke these words, she felt the vitality drain from her so quickly that she sought a chair. “ We mustn't be brash! I honestly don’t know that I could manage Peter sick and any one of you boys wounded at the same time! We must use cunning to cure Peter!”

“We can very cunningly make it look like an accident?” Offered Curly hopefully.

“No.” Wendy was adamant. “This time, Tinkerbell is right. We shall have to speak to Captain Hook and make him aware of the gravity of our situation.”

“And if he doesn’t yield?” Nibs scowled. “Pirates are known to skewer first and discuss later.”

The girl flushed. “Well then, by all means Nibs, you may stab away.”

Nibs looked unconvinced but stowed his sword back into its scabbard. “Alright, Mother. The Lost Boys will do as you say…for now. But if Peter wakes and asks why there wasn’t a fight, what shall we tell him?”

“That a fight without Pan isn’t a fight at all.” Wendy answered. “Now you must excuse me. I’ve much to get done before my meeting at the Jolly Roger.”

The lads gave way as she put up a cauldron of water above the hearth in ready for boiling up Little Panther’s potion. Pausing to examine Peter, she found him very much the same—cheeks ashen and eyes glazed. Borrowing John’s pocket watch, she took his wrist between thumb and forefinger and counted the beat of his pulse against the littlest hand on the clock’s face. Peter’s heart was bounding far faster than the poor little second hand in its dutiful course around the minute hand. Wendy had no way of knowing if this were a good sign or bad but the steadfast rhythm assured her that Pan was still fighting and therefore, very much among the living. After replacing the damp cloth on his brow and patting his hand, she walked five paces away from his bed towards her parlor and sat at her toilette.

The sturdy little oak table and chair had been gifted to her by Peter himself, understanding that girls in their mysteries required some private space to hang a looking glass to whisper secrets to. He'd allowed her this strange alter so long as she promised to keep it as far away from him as their spacious Den would allow.

Before meetings with important gentlemen, no matter how wicked they be, Wendy knew that she must present herself with all the sincerity and bearing of a well brought up lady. Sitting before her looking glass, which was really just a polished dinner plate nicked from Hook’s table, she set about dusting her nose with pretend powder and dotting a dab of rainwater behind each ear. Staining her fingertips with never-berry juice, she dabbed gently at her cheeks until two bright stains of a becoming pink stood out when she smiled.

“I say Wendy, why on Earth are you disguising yourself as a Picaninny warrior for?”

“It is not war paint, John.” Wendy explained.

“It surely looks like it.”

“It’s called rouge and all ladies must wear it when calling upon a gentleman.” Said she in the midst of fastening on a comedic bonnet made from wildflowers and a frame fashioned of bent green twigs tied together. Proper young ladies never left the house without their bonnet. 

“Ladies sure do have a lot of _musts._ ” Observed a Twin.

“Well boys, how do I look?” She asked, turning round to meet their astonished glances.

“Hook will… notice you for sure.” Nibs stuttered after a frantic scurry about his brain to pluck out the appropriate description.

“Do fly low lest you be mistaken for some exotic fowl again!” Tink jingled wickedly but Wendy paid her no mind.

“I’m off! I don’t surely know how I shall get Hook’s blood but I am determined to get it.” She vowed, carefully plunging an intimidating hat pin into her bonnet. “Look after Peter and be sure his feet are kept warm.”

Each of their faces drooped for just as soon as they had got their Mother back, she was to be gone again in a trice. Wendy noted their downcast expressions with sympathy.

“I am sorry boys. I wish I could be in two places at once.” Such was the regret of all mothers for they are often the busiest people in or out of Neverland.

Tink, who had been largely absent and sulking for the better part of this story, now flitted among them to make herself known again.

“Alright then!” She relented. “I suppose it’s my turn to watch the hopeless lug and be sure he doesn’t injure himself further!”

“I can’t imagine how he could even slightly manage that,” said Slightly. “Seeing as how he is sound asleep.”

“You’d wonder at the amount of trouble Pan can get into with his eyes closed!” Tink said, perching herself on top of Peter’s shoulder. With a reach into her pouch, she tossed a handful of dust in Peter’s left ear _“to chase the bad dreams away”_ at their questioning looks.

Wendy, now relieved of one duty, set off again into the darkening sky and into territory much unknown.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The Jolly Roger was eerily unmanned at her approach, dodging the restless brine as she drew in close and cautious. She had expected to spy at least the bosun or the first mate at the watch, or even the thin and wiry cabin boy Billy Jukes in his typical spot at the Crow’s Nest. But a concerning quiet had overtaken the ship and for that, she was at least partly grateful.

Wendy could feel her heart beat as she alighted upon the abandoned deck, eyes darting fast about. Nothing but the gentle sway and tilt and the salty sea air came to greet her. When no violent charge or roaring alarm sounded, she gulped in a deep breath and marched herself directly towards Hook’s quarter. Adjusting her official grown up garments as though they might protect her like armor, she rehearsed in her head the formal greetings he would expect.

The heavy oak door—worn by salty air and tears of foul temper—was as impressive and sturdy as Hook himself. She stood before it a moment in awe and gathered up her courage in a ball clenched inside her fist. She lifted her little hand, intending to rap her knuckles against the doorframe but retracted it, thinking better if it. Did Pirates knock to announce their presence? She had no wish to alert any others who might be lurking about unseen. Resolved, she pushed the cabin door open with a firm shove.

She found him alone at his study, not playing at his harpsichord or cheating at cards. Instead he was dressed in his finery and bent over a parchment map. In his black waistcoat and powdered wig, he was still every bit as fearsome to the little girl now standing in his doorway. 

Before she could doff even a proper curtsy, he addressed her in a surprisingly gentile growl.

“What cozening is this?” Leave it to a Pirate not to be familiar with the term: “Good day.” For pirate days are rarely good. He did not so much as offer her a chair so Wendy remained planted where she stood.

“Captain Hook.” In as solid a voice as she could, she beseeched him. “I come in great distress.”

“I had surmised an ill wind when, for a blissful fortnight, the rakish laughter of that impetuous imp did not molest my contemplation.” Looking up from his chart, he now acknowledged her presence with his sharp blue eyes. “I had not realized, however, just how ill.” With a glance down at his maps and a shift of his monocle, he muttered. “The stars are not in alignment.”

Though he was indeed a black-hearted Pirate, he was a learned man and of this fact he was sure to make all aware. The direct anti-thesis of his nemesis, whose very laughter filled his ears with poison. Now that laughter came no more and he sat in thought on what to make of the strange, new silence.

Wendy’s mouth opened in surprise as she beheld Captain James Hook, smirking down at her. She was more shocked than afraid for Wendy was a brave little lass, despite her stature.

“Mistress Wendy. To what do I owe this abominable pleasure?” 

His voice was a purr, like a cat appraising a fine mouse before it pounced. Wendy swallowed her fear, and held his gaze, arms held stiffly at her sides. Mustering up every bit of courage she had and the rest borrowed from memories, she looked the dreaded man straight in the eyes.

“Captain Hook, you must come with me at once!”

A hint of a smile curled his lips. So small a maid commanding a man of station such as himself was no ordinary affair. His eyes twinkled as though he were already planning some misdeed.

“So the mystery is to reveal itself then.” He rested his chin upon one gloved hand. “I hear you have been seeking my blood, missy.”

The little girl stammered, taken aback. “But how could you know that?”

“The birds in the sky, the lapping of the ocean waves. All of Neverland is my messenger, Miss Wendy.” His eyes glowed darkly at her confusion. “Besides, news travels fast in these parts. Or why have I not already caught the whiff of underhanded mischief from Pan’s sneaky thieving boys on the decks of my vessel.”

Hook continued to sneer as he glanced about. “Tell me, where is Peter Pan? What boldness has possessed ye to venture alone to the Jolly Roger?”

Wendy’s eyes widened, and her heart leapt inside her. The ignoble villain spoke true, he was the very reason she had been searching. But, now it came to it, Wendy couldn’t help feeling like a traitor, betraying Peter’s location to his sworn enemy. 

“Before I tell you,” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, throat dry as an hour glass, “You must promise... no, swear as a gentleman AND a pirate not to do Peter Pan any harm.”

“Oh not **this** rot again…” Hook muttered, rolling his eyes. Wendy grit her teeth and stamped her foot.

“Promise!”

James Hook considered the little lass before him; so bold… so trusting… so _gullible._

“I so swear.” These words flowed smoothly as water from a pitcher from his lips. 

“Swear you will not hurt him... on--on the grave of your sainted mother!” Wendy crossed her arms. 

It was now Hook’s mouth that fell open in surprise. Obviously, the brave little maid had given this particular exchange a lot of thought.

“You have my word as gentleman, devoted son and scallywag thrice, Miss Wendy. Now answer my question. Why have you sought me out when I could even now deliver you to Davy Jones?”

Wendy hesitated, reluctant to reveal Peter’s weakness. But Hook would have to find out, sooner or later. Her hands shook at what she would reveal so she clenched them firmly at her sides to set them right.

“Peter Pan is…” She caught herself and tried again. “He…he drank without permission from one of the Forbidden Springs and now has a terrible fever!”

The captain raised an eloquent brow for this news piqued his interest. “Pan stricken?” He repeated, a gloat forming in his throat. “And, I presume, you expect me to redeem him with the sanguine potion from my own fingertip?”

Wendy scowled as he reared back with fiendish laughter, rattling the well of ink and feather pens scattered about his desk. With passion, she stomped her foot again. 

“Three drops of blood! It's not much to ask!"

"That's three too many for me dried up husk of a heart, dear lass."

"If you don’t save Peter, he could die!”

“If I get hold of him, lassie, he surely will!” Hook chortled in delight.

Wendy stared at the man, and even the Dreaded Pirate himself grew shifty under her incredulous gaze.

“But you cannot…no, you would not as a gentleman let Peter perish?”

“Wouldn’t I? Is it not strange, little wench? Do you think my intervention on behalf of the life of Peter Pan would be fair sport for me lost hand and me stolen pride? Have I not spent countless days plagued by that pestering, arrogant youth? A Neverland without Pan would be a Pirate’s Paradise!”

Tears threatened to roll down Wendy’s cheeks at these words. In a trembling voice which fought its own battle to remain steady, she pleaded once more.

“It is as you say, Mr. Hook. But arrogant or not, pestering or not, his life now rests solely on you, sir. Would Davy Jones vouchsafe your entrance to his locker knowing you had betrayed the most sacred of Pirate Codes? Surely, no scourge on the Spanish Main would ever again utter your name without pure disgust and loathing!”

Hook’s lip curled into a menacing sneer. He was a difficult man to bargain with for Pirates never bargain fairly.

“Rot and nonsense! If Pan meets his end by his own bullheaded negligence that is his affair! I will not be held responsible.”

“No, you are quite right. But should not that entitlement be yours alone? Are you not the blackest and most villainous pirate ever to sail the Spanish Main? Surely if Peter were to die, it should be at the hand—I mean Hook, of the dreaded Captain of the Jolly Roger?””

The wicked man's eloquent brows lifted.

“Odds bobs, the lass speaks the truth.”

“Is Peter Pan not your worthiest adversary? The only one in Neverland or the Seven Seas to match your cunning and thirst for valor?" 

Hook bent over once more across his map with interest.

“Then I bequeath him to the care of another capable adult. You are his Mother. Can you not succor the lad?”

“But I am not his real mother!” She cried. “He has no mother but surely…” Her eyes suddenly lit up in her delicate face. “…surely Peter has a teacher!”

“And am I to be that teacher?” Hook chuckled in amusement at the thought.

“He’s had no one to teach him right from wrong! Of course! You’ve always wanted to teach him a lesson, haven’t you, Captain Hook?”

“It has crossed my mind to watch the barnacles ripped from his tender sides, yes.” The Captain hummed. 

“Oh, where would you be without Pan, sir? Where would you be?” She wrung her hands.

Hook settled back in his velvet lined armchair in thought and spoke no more.

_Tick…tock….tick….tock…_

The ticking of the china clock resting on his ornate mantle taunted Wendy with its synchronous gait. Time for Pan was in short supply. 

Would Peter truly die?

That terrible reality spelled the end for poor Wendy’s composure. The dam broke and tears began to cut their path down her berry-smeared cheeks. Wendy brushed them away quickly for it would do no good to let the magnificent brute see her cry. She had tried so very hard with her powder and her bonnet to appeal to the heart of a Pirate and failed miserably.

“Mr. Hook.” Wept she, wiping her damp eyes. “You are in utterly bad form.”

Blinking back her blurred vision, she was astounded to find proffered at the point’s edge of his hook, a lace handkerchief.

“Command yourself, Mistress. I’ll have no tantrums aboard my ship.” Sniffling, the girl obeyed, accepting the handkerchief. It seemed to her that his rough throat had mellowed and his voice softened. Could it be he was allergic to girl’s tears? Whatever the case, she was grateful for the handkerchief as she gathered it to her nose and blew.  


“By this, mistress Wendy, woulds’t thou entrust Peter Pan to my care? You would… lead me to Pan’s Lair?”

“If you solemnly swear—as a gentleman AND as a pirate—that you will not hurt him.”

Man and girl held each other’s gaze for several, tense moments.

"It would not be the first time, Miss Wendy, that the infernal rapscallion has attempted to beguile and deceive! Playing sympathies with a pirate, my dear, is a lost sport for you see we are born with none." 

"But Captain Hook, sir, surely even you can see how devastating it would be were Peter to die! He is your best and only adversary, the only one worthy of your Hook! Without him, you will exist adrift with no one to fight and none to call your equal!"

"That does, I confess, bear some cheap validity. Very well. Bring me to Pan! I would see with me own eyes the brat’s blundering decline!"

Wendy scowled despite Hook's half-baked acquiesce.

“Swear it truly then, on your mother’s grave.”

Hook sighed as though the weight of two worlds rested on his shoulders.

“I swear, on the memory of my dear mother, that I – James Hook – will do no harm to Peter Pan. At least not until he is restored again.” With this vow, he rose up from his chair and extended his good hand. Wendy nearly shrank back for he was very tall and very broad of shoulder. But he bent low enough for her to glimpse his expression in the dim candle light and detect no foul art or intent.

"We are agreed then, sir."

The little girl slipped her dainty hand within the Villain’s, fingers curling around his large thumb. _“How odd,”_ thought she. _“But his hand is so large and strong, it feels almost the same as my father’s.”_


	10. A Moment Without Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hook weighs the life of the Eternal Youth in his remaining palm

_“I mustn’t lead him to the Home Under the Ground.”_ Wendy, brushing aside a low-dipping willow branch, agonized. _“There must be a way to bring Peter above ground.”_

Meandering through the woods alongside a bedraggled and thoroughly done in Pirate, Wendy dared not fly for fear any rash movement would find the hem of skirt on the end of his Hook. The emerald green leaves which usually brought her shade and comfort were now obstacles in their path.  
Being small and lighter of step, she scurried easily through the winding underbrush while he, with his lumbering frame, made quick work of any brambles within his cutlass’ reach. The surroundings were ill-suited for overgrown limbs accustomed to the constant ebb and flow of the ocean and by his crimson face he was fast growing short of patience.

“It is not very far.” She promised, careful to dodge the edge of his blade.

“This had better not be one of your deceits, Missy.” Hook panted, shoving aside a curtain of vines.

“I am not Peter Pan, sir.” She replied indignantly. “I would not stoop so low as to lie even to a Pirate.”

The Captain spat out a mouthful of milkweed floss that had at that moment swung to hit him in the face. His resulting tirade startled the birds from their perches.

“Infernal terrain, cursed Neverland!” 

Wendy could not help but stifle a chuckle at his distress. Horrible as he was, his blood was going to cure Peter and he was as comical as most grown-ups appear when out of their element. After all, it wasn’t his fault that he was a grumpy old pirate with too-big legs and a sore back.

After a good deal of ducking, sweeping, swatting and grumbling they stopped at a clearing in the middle of the wood, just shy of Crocodile Creek. The Croc herself had neither been seen nor, more importantly, heard for some days having only recently gorged herself on Neverbird eggs. Wendy assumed it would be safest for all to have the Captain wait while she fetched Peter from below. So long as the Croc stayed cool and asleep in the mud, things would go as planned.

“Here we must stop.” She said, gesturing to a row of felled trees. “You may have a rest if you wish.”

“Couldn’t enter your mockery of an abode anyhow.” He growled, planting himself on a stump. He seemed much more agreeable to the suggestion of waiting, cursing his aching toes and the humidity. He mopped his brow with a silk handkerchief pulled from his sleeve.

“I will just bring Peter here to you if you’ll wait, sir.” Instructed Wendy.

“As you will, wench. It’s hotter than a devil’s nostril in this inhabitable terrain!” He waved her off, vigorously rubbing his booted ankles. “Be quick about!”

“I won’t be long then.”

Wendy took that moment to lift herself high in the air and flew straight for the Underground House, cutting above the trees faster than a dart. She did not expect to find the scenery within much changed from how she’d left it but it struck her as she wended her way through the cool earthen tunnels just how exhausted she felt. Flying about all day hither and thither had taken its toll but somehow she hadn’t noticed the weariness in her limbs. Fear for Peter had replaced all other disquiet within her and now she longed to release it like a heavy sigh held back too long. 

All eyes were upon her the moment she entered the doorway.

“Wendy! You’re back!” Michael made to go to run to his sister… but stopped as the entry behind Wendy was filled with a dark and imposing figure.

A collective gasp filled the one-room dwelling. To the amazement of all, there in their little house stood the feared Captain, stooped low at the waist to avoiding hitting his head on a ceiling not built to accommodate him. His blade was drawn and a gloating expression had overtaken his handsome face. His eyes gleamed in the sputtering candlelight as he menacingly advanced upon the shaken children.

“Wendy...” John whispered, as he beheld the pirate-captain, “No...”

She spun round with a gasp. “Captain Hook! How on earth did you--?”

“I take greater strides than any child and me cutlass cleared a path. You’ll need a new front door, by the by.” He grinned.

“Ruffian!” Slightly howled, his slingshot already aimed and drawn. “Leave our house!”

It was not to be believed and Michael rubbed at his eyes to ensure they were working properly. Here in their hideaway was the dreaded pirate himself! With a catlike sneer, he removed his tri-corner hat and gave a mocking bow, his hat-feather brushing the dirt floor.

“Begging your indulgence Mistress Wendy. But you did not think I would keep my word as a Pirate and pass up a chance to discover Pan’s lair?”

“Bad form, Captain Hook!” Wendy cried, reaching a hand behind to comfort Tootles who had taken refuge behind her skirt. 

Nibs snarled, pointing his sword directly at Hook’s breast. “You’ve no business here, Hook!” 

“Oh, but methinks thou art mistaken brash youth. I see only a band of ragged boys. Tell me, where now lies your precious Peter Pan?”

A weak utterance rose up in reply. Wendy cast her eyes in the direction of Peter’s bed, suddenly terrified. What would the dreaded man do?

“What cozening is this?” Hook blinked in bewilderment, ignoring the glares of the Lost Boys as he surveyed the scene before him. Peter was very much as she had left him before. Ashen-faced and burning with fever, only the faintest breath of life stirred within his breast. Earlier, they had fitted him into an old night shirt belonging to John which Wendy had meant to sew a patch on. Out of his homespun garb and in the thread of society, he might well have resembled a sickly street sweeper in a London workhouse or the misbegotten son of a banker. Pan the mortal! Pan undone! 

Before Wendy could move to place herself between the monster and her beloved Pan, he had already taken three swift paces across the room and dropped to one knee beside the pallet.

“Hammer and Tongs, Peter Pan.” Hook hissed. “Can it be you?” As he reached the boy’s crumpled form, Hook spoke his name again as though he could not believe what he was seeing. “Hast thou cast off thy immortal coil?”

“He has been so ill for so long.” Wendy said, trembling.

Hook’s voice had lost its surliness and for a moment completely bereft of air, he only stared. 

“Not much longer, by Saint Augustine’s beard.” Hook muttered. “The boy’s life hangs by a faerie’s wing.”

“Oh no, Mr. Hook!” Wendy wept. “You are wrong! Say you are wrong, wicked pirate.”

But a young girl’s tears are not enough to move the heart of a Pirate. Removing his hat, Hook set it reverently over his breast. Bowing his head, he spoke these words:

“Adieu Youth Eternal! May your sleep, Peter Pan, be as solemn and silent as you never were in life.”

“Bite your vile tongue! Speak not of the death of Pan!” Raged Slightly, tears running down his face.

Not a soul in the Underground Dwelling could have foreseen what happened next.

With a rough swipe of his long arm and terrifying swiftness, Hook ensnared the front of Peter’s loose shirt, hauling him up from the pallet like a limp doll. Wendy screamed, covering her eyes in fear, and the Lost Boys grit their teeth, knuckles white on the hilts of their daggers.

“Awaken ye foul trickster!” Hook roared, giving Peter a firm shake but he did not stir, not even an eyelash. Hook’s frown darkened, yellow eyes narrowed as he gazed upon the deathly countenance of his sworn foe. Could it truly be possible that his life was draining before him? A life laid claim to one Captain James Hook?

“Odds bobs hammer and tongs.” He whispered. “You cannot voice the truth of it. So shall I consult your foul innards? Speak, ye lowly bag of gristle, do ye still believe death to be an awful great adventure?”

Drawing the boy nearer, he pressed an ear against Peter’s bosom and listened as his heart give three stubborn thumps before pattering weakly against his ribs like a rabbit trying to kick its way out of a trap with its hind legs.

“Such paltry palpitations! What by Davy Jones’ liver has reduced my eternal adversary to this weakened sack of gall?”

“He angered the spirits of the Forbidden Forest.” Nibs spoke for Wendy was still weeping. “He drank from a Spring marked cursed.”

“Lad after me own colors.” Hook hummed. Though decently educated in form, he never cared much for rules or keeping them. 

“Chief Big Little Panther told us the only way to make Peter’s medicine was to draw three drops of blood from his greatest enemy! That’s you, Mr. Hook!” Said John.

“Well then, if this black heart indeed bears the elixir able to rouse Pan from this boorish sleep, I shall grant it thee. Fetch me a chalice!”

None of the Lost Boys moved at his command for they had no concept of what a chalice was. Wendy, remembering the bundle of herbs in her pocket, placed them in a bowl fashioned from baked clay and slowly poured boiling water over them. At once the leaves dissolved and sent clouds of bitter steam billowing through the room. When it had cleared, a greenish fragrant liquor remained. This she placed with care on the floor before Captain Hook.

“Proud and insolent youth.” Hook muttered, yanking off his glove betwixt his teeth. Because he was a vile pirate through and through, he pushed his large thumb unblinking into the sharpened point of his hook, letting exactly three fat droplets of blood swell and drip down into the bowl. Once he’d finished, he pressed the wound into one of the candle flames, cauterizing it with a sizzle.

At the gruesome display, John’s face took on a sickly pallor and Wendy felt her stomach twist but she kept her composure, watching with baited breath the man’s every move. 

“There, it is done.” Said he, taking up the chalice which, now enriched by his own red blood, bubbled and hissed as though angered. Hook was quite rough with the boy, seizing Peter’s limp body up once more upon his hook, he tipped his head back, worked his mouth open with one blackened thumb and forced the bitter potion down his throat.

Peter choked, gasped and gurgled on the brackish dose, struggling weakly against Hook’s powerful grip but Hook was by far bigger and stronger than he. With his cruel hand, he crushed the boy’s jaw shut despite his thrashing and made him swallow.

“Quaff it down, Pan. Down your narrow gullet and into your feeble veins! Drink or die.”

With a sneer, he let Peter’s frame drop back onto the pallet like a sack of old shoes. For a terrible moment without air, Peter lay pale and unmoving. Wendy wrung her hands tightly, terrified for the end of her dear Pan.

“Peter?” She whispered again, hurriedly wiping the tears from her cheeks before they could fall on her beloved friend's face.

Hook jerked up his head, thinking he had heard the boy stir.

And what a sight! Peter’s breast heaved up and down, for the first time in a long time drawing in a deep, clean breath of air. His eyes blinked open and he looked about him in a daze as though emerging from a long dream.

“Oh Peter! You're not dead!” Tootles, unable to contain himself, blurted out.

It was true. Peter was warm and alive, his cheek flushed a healthy glow and his brown hair tousled askew as though he’d been merely asleep. 

“Wendy?” He spoke low as though uncertain of where he was. His eyes had seen nothing but darkened illusions for so long, he did not trust them now. 

“Wendy… I had the strangest dream.” He whispered.

Wendy was already beside herself at the sound of her friend’s voice speaking her name. How she had missed it so! Cradling Peter's head in her lap, she was relieved to find his fever broken. Though laughter and joy bubbled up like a fount inside her, the words were stubborn and refused to leave her tongue. She longed to fall upon him weeping and kiss his cheek until he thrust her rudely away but that would have made a very inelegant scene and she was too much a lady to disgrace herself before a Pirate.  


As for Peter, he was still very much addled, having newly awoken to the oddest of scenes before him. His lids fluttered as he tried to right himself and his throat worked to voice the thousand questions etched across his face. Glancing down at himself, he noted right away the hole ripped into his shirtfront from Hook’s earlier handling.

“I’m…wearing a gentleman’s clothes.” He murmured. “Did I…” He swallowed. “Have I died, then?”

“No, silly ass!” Tink flashed before him. “You have been saved!”

“Aye, the winsome Sprite speaks true.” Hook’s voice rumbled. “I have redeemed your pitiful carcass, Pan, that we may cross blades again on this plane of existence.”

Peter’s wondering gaze took in the Captain’s hulking form though he was unafraid. He rubbed at his eyes furiously, blinking rapidly through the mist.

“A Codfish saved the life of the magnificent Pan?” Peter could scarcely believe his own words. “I must still be asleep.”

“Not asleep, Peter! Hook gave you medicine that—“ Nibs stopped himself and cleared his throat. “Uh, only he could make!” 

Peter’s brow knit together.

“I remember the last time someone tried to give me medicine! My fairy’s light almost went out for good! I won’t make that mistake again!”

“As for mistakes impetuous youth,” Remembering himself, Hook rose to as much of his full height as the underground rafters would allow. “I should like to correct my earlier one of entering this den in the first place. How in Perdition’s name does one exit?”

Tink fluttered before his face and blew a handful of dust into his eyes. Squinting, Hook roared in suprise, taken aback by the unexpected assault.

“Odds, Bobs, hammer and Toooongs!” In a cloud of fairydust, he vanished.

“Oh where did he go, Tink?” Asked Wendy. “I wished to thank him.”

“Silly girl, I sent him back to the Jolly Roger of course!”

“But now Hook knows where we live!” Nibs grumbled. “He’ll have his pirates on us by sundown!”

“No he won’t!” Tink vowed. “I may have scrambled his memory a little on that vanishing spell. The brains of old men are easy to tangle, he won’t find us again!”

The group of boys let out a collective sigh. “Three cheers for Mother Wendy!” Cried Nibs. “She’s won the day!”

As one they cheered, eager to forget the painful days past and Wendy beamed as they gathered around their friend.

Peter scowled. “Girls aren’t meant to win days except for when they bake pies! Everyone knows that!” He cast his blanket aside with disgust for he remembered how much he hated being sent to bed. Quickly, he sat up and tried gaining his feet though they wobbled from being still for so long. “Furthermore, Pan is the only one worthy of three cheers around here!”

“I’ll settle for one and a half.” Sighed Wendy temperately, reaching out to steady him. “And perhaps…a thimble?”

“Ewww!” Curly hid his face from that suggestion.

“Oh, let’s have an adventure right away?” Begged Tootles, eyes shining. “The ones we’ve had lately have been awfully tedious!” 

“Now boys, you mustn’t overtire Father.” Chimed Wendy, standing up to sweep the ashes away from the hearth and waken the coals. “I suppose I ought to bake a pie to celebrate.” And one more for the Pirates for it is good form to show gratitude.

“Well, I’m not one to wait around watching a pie bake! Let’s to the woods! Make haste!” Cried Peter.

“The woods?” Wendy frowned. “Peter, is that really where you plan to have your next adventure?”

Peter stroked his chin. “I have a certain one in mind, actually.”

And though it was little wonder to him at all, for he hadn’t the faintest memory of his feverish ordeal, he leapt into the air and caught the tail of the wind, crowing triumphantly as he went.

Oh, to see Peter Pan flying once more was to see Neverland for the first time again!

Whooping and screaming like a pack of hellions, the Lost Boys trailed after him, cutting a straight line into the wall of clouds.


	11. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Pan learns a lesson

You may believe, dear friends, that this is the end of the tale but it is not.

For Neverland itself this story ends for all things had been set right. In the Neverland of yesterday where Mothers were heroes, foes were friends and spring water wrought slow death, the Neverland of today rang with the shouts of Lost Boys who, not for one moment, dared dream that life would ever be more than a fantastic game.

Yet Peter had but one final debt to pay. The boy who lives forever understands little of consequence. Respect is a lesson he has failed time and time again but on this sun-drenched new day, he bears purpose in his hands.

“This way men!” He pointed down into the thick of the wood. “Follow me!”

As one, the boys obeyed, diving down through the clouds to land in the shaded green below. There, nestled between two slate grey boulders, a singing stream trickled lightly into the shimmering pool’s mirror. Peter landed on his feet, glancing once over his shoulder at John.

“What do I say?”

“Now you mustn’t be haughty or bold.” John reminded. “Just say the truth and that you are sorry indeed.”

Peter nodded but his breathing picked up pace. Apologies were new territory to him, frightening in a way that made his heart thump hard within his breast.

He set himself on one knee at the water’s edge, lower lip trembling slightly, head bowed in shame.

 **Shame.** A color they had never before seen Pan wear.

The Lost Boys looked on as Peter murmured words that none could hear into his own reflection. The little stream answered back with a ripple and a drop, as though pleased with his admission. This put a grin a mile wide on Peter's face as, somehow, the little spring had freed him from some invisible burden. He spun round to meet the faces of his band. 

"I say, good show Peter Pan!" John congratulated him. Peter, who felt that congratulatory remarks should be passed as freely as morning pleasantries, threw back his head and crowed in delight.

"Last one to the Jolly Roger is a rotten Never egg!"

For the eternal youth, regret would dwell in the back of his memory like a wisp of smoke, there to remind him of all the adventure he would miss out on should he fail to mark its warning. 

And that was a lesson Peter Pan would sooner forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I would write one of my longest stories for a fandom hardly anyone remembers anymore. But for those of you that do, hiya! I've always wanted to write this fic as it's the episode I would have wanted to see. I hope you've enjoyed my short foray into Neverland.


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